


When Alteration Finds

by realjane



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2018-11-28 06:51:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 25,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11412546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/realjane/pseuds/realjane
Summary: Hermione's post-war paradise is shaken by the presence of Draco Malfoy, a man who was supposed to be dead, by all accounts.





	1. Trust No Agent

She draped the plaid blanket over him. He lay on his side, curled into the fetal position and facing towards the wall. She was fairly certain that he was asleep. He’d drank enough scotch to tranquilize a horse, by the smell of it, and by the size of the tab he had rung up, and he was in no position to move to a vacant room upstairs. She sighed.

He had a permanent worried furrow in his brow, even though he was unconscious. The years had carved away at him. Once thin and ferret-like, he was now gaunt. He burrowed deeper beneath the itchy blanket. Best to leave him here, she thought. It was unlikely he would remember anything tomorrow, let alone recall where he was or how he had gotten there. She had to admit that it intrigued her to see him, after ten years, but Merlin! She had moved to Dublin to escape their kind. She had lost contact with Harry shortly after the move, and sent Ron’s owls back unanswered until he stopped trying. Ginny had understood; Luna had encouraged it. She couldn’t bear it.

Hermione was afraid to turn her back on the sleeping wizard, though a quick search of his outer layers had not revealed a hidden wand. She backed away from him. Why, in Merlin’s name, was he _here_? In a pub in a hole in the wall in a backstreet in Dublin, snoring into the window seat bench cushion. She had heard that he had gone missing; after publicly denouncing his parents and refusing any rights to his family’s extensive fortune, Draco Malfoy had simply vanished.

He had left almost a year before she, too, decided to part ways with the Wizarding community. As soon as she had seen him arrive in her pub, she had asked her bartender Maura to attend to him. The girl had done too good a job, and now he was passed out. 

She collided with a chair and table set and winced. He didn’t budge. She retreated to the safety of the bar--her bar--the great mahogany counter that had afforded her a position of power in the Snake and Otter Inn and Pub for nearly eight years of sanctuary. Damn him! She dropped to her knees, clutching the shelf on which wine glasses were perched, and breathed out heavily. This was a bad time for her past to get dredged up. Nothing good ever happened after 2 am.

The little bell on the front door tinkled. Hermione stood slowly and peeked over the bar top.

A man stood in the doorway, drenched head to toe from the torrential rain, which chattered against the cobblestones behind him.

“We’ve closed up for the night,” Hermione called to the man. He ignored her. Instead, he reached inside his sleeve and crept towards the sleeping wizard, brandishing a twisted wand before him. Hermione felt underneath the lip of the bar until her fingers found her own wand. She gripped it tightly.

“He’s all right,” she said. “He’ll sleep it off here and we’ll send him home in a taxi in the morning.” The advancing man ignored her, still. Hermione sighed. “You’ve got a lot of nerve,” she said, holding her wand up. “Leave him be, and get the hell out of my pub.”

The dripping man stopped walking. Hermione rounded the end of the bar with her wand trained on his head. “Don’t do anything we’ll both regret,” she warned. The man wheeled on her and raised his arm.

“ _Expelliarmus!_ ” she shouted. The wand flew out of the man’s hand and he ducked. Hermione charged at him. “What in Merlin’s name are you trying to do?”

As soon as she was within arm’s reach, the man lunged forward and shoved his entire weight into her knee. Crack! Hermione wailed as white hot pain shot through her leg. She buckled against a chair. Her attacker struggled to his feet and his gaze searched frantically for his wand. Hermione gritted her teeth. Her world was spinning and she had the overwhelming urge to vomit or pass out. She gripped the chair tightly, passed her wand to her free hand, and pointed it at the man’s back.

“ _Petrificus totalus!_ ” she spat. The man’s body went completely rigid and he fell face-first onto the floor. She breathed out heavily and pulled herself to sit on the chair. She poked at her knee, which was most assuredly broken. Her kneecap seemed to be floating freely amongst the bones and tissue. She gritted her teeth, jabbed her wand into her thigh, and muttered the only healing incantation she could remember. _Episkey._

Not much happened. From what she could tell, the leg was still horribly fractured, though her pain was subsiding into a deeply-rooted ache. Non-magical injury, so no magical cure was safe. Unless she wanted to spend the evening entirely regrowing her leg bones, as Lockhart had forced Harry to do in their second year at Hogwarts. No thank you. She ought to go to A&E and have a professional take care of her leg--but how did she expect to get there?

Hermione held her wand up towards the bar. “ _Accio Hair of the Dog!_ ” she said. A blue vial shot from the shelves along the bar and into her waiting hand. Then, she trained her wand on the back of the sleeping wizard. She flicked her wand and the blanket flew off of him. She flicked it again and a blast of cold air landed squarely against his neck. He shot up with a yelp.

“What in the seven hells--” His mouth ceased to produce any more sound as he made eye contact with the furious witch. She flicked her wand and a blue bottle shot at his head. It missed clocking him in the eye by centimeters; it was a lucky catch with the raging headache he had.

“Drink that. Then we’ll square up,” she growled. Draco swung his legs over the side of the bench and steadied himself; his nausea made the room feel like the cabin of a ship on choppy seas. “Oh, and if you retch on my floor, I’ll kill you.” She gestured to the blue bottle that he hadn’t yet uncorked.

“Planning to poison me?” he slurred, grasping for the cork.

“Sobering potion,” she said. “Drink it, now.”

“Untwist your knickers, Granger,” he chuckled. “I’ll drink it.” He took a generous swig of the liquid, which tasted of licorice, and felt the effects instantly. The room settled, his head cleared, and his stomach stopped doing somersaults… and then it occurred to him exactly who was glaring at him from across the room. He stood up abruptly and nearly tripped. “What in Merlin’s name are you doing here? Wherever this is,” he said, gesturing to this room. “And who’s that?” He pointed at the petrified man on the floor.

“This is my pub. I own it--well, not outright, but it’s my husband’s and he’s not here, so it’s mine,” she sighed. “That is a man who tried to attack you while you were passed out in _my pub_ . So, a better question is: what the hell are _you_ doing here? Are you here to… hurt me?” She still had her wand trained at his chest. Draco held up his hands.

“I live in Dublin,” he said, matter-of-factly.

“No you don’t,” Hermione said. “ _I_ live in Dublin!”

“There’s enough of Dublin for the both of us--”

“Clearly there isn’t!” she spat. He winced and put his hands in front of his face.

“I didn’t know you were here,” he admitted. “I’ve been on a bit of a bender. This is the soberist I’ve been in days. Although, if you’d consider marketing that potion, I might remember a few more of my days in the future.”

“Why did that moron try to attack you?” she said, pointing to the prostrate man. Draco shrugged.

“Dunno.”

“You must have done something, Malfoy,” Hermione said. “Where there’s smoke, there’s bound to be fire. And with your track record--”

“I’ve been hiding in Ireland for nearly a decade! There’s nobody left to remember that I’m a blood traitor,” he said, sitting.

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. “How can you even be sure of that?”

His eyes flicked up at her. His brow furrowed even deeper, and he looked away. “Suffice to say that my father burned through every Death Eater left alive after the war,” he said softly. “He never did find me, hiding amongst his oldest allies. Now he’s dead, too.”

Hermione watched him fold his arms over his chest and grip his sleeves tightly. “Well, whoever he is, he broke my leg,” she said, pointing at her knee, which had swelled beneath her tightly-fitted denims. “And I’m debating petrifying you, too, so I can get to the hospital, except that I don’t know how to get myself there in this state without apparating,” she said. “I could confund you to go for help.”

“Or I could just pop next door and tell them that their local barmaid is in need of assistance,” Draco suggested.

“But, see, I don’t trust you,” she said through gritted teeth, as a wave of pain washed down her leg once more.

Draco winced from second-hand sympathy pain. “Merlin, you’re in a sorry state,” he breathed. He reached into his jacket.

“Keep your hands where I can see them!” she shouted. He pulled his hand out of his coat, held up his wand, and placed it on the table before him. He pointed at the petrified man in silent inquiry. Hermione nodded once. Draco walked hesitantly around the man, observing him silently. When his face came into view, Draco knelt down with his back to Hermione. She craned her head to see over his shoulder. All of a sudden, Draco wheeled around.

“ _Expelliarmus!_ ” he shouted. Hermione’s own wand lept out of her hands. Draco snapped the man’s wand in half and tossed the pieces aside. “There,” he said. “Now that we’re equally unable to hex the other, and this poor sot isn’t likely to try anything until you un-petrify him, would you like me to phone an ambulance? Or, if you’ve a car of your own, I could drive you there myself.”

“Why would I let you drive me to the hospital? What could possibly convince me to trust you? You disarmed me!” Hermione crossed her arms.

“Come now, Miss Granger,” he began, but he stopped abruptly. “You mentioned your husband. Where is he?”

“Dead,” she said.

“How did he die? Oh--nevermind. How terribly rude of me,” Draco said. He nudged the man onto his back so he could study his face.

Hermione sighed heavily. “Cancer. And yes, before you ask, he _was_ a Muggle, and that was just fine with me.”

Draco frowned, but didn’t press her further. “I recognize the symbol under his right eye,” Draco said, gesturing to the unconscious man’s face, “but I’ve never seen him before.”

“Do you know where he’s from?” Hermione asked.

“Durmstrang has a similar emblem, but it isn’t exactly the same. It could be a connection to…” he stopped and shook his head. “I don’t think that’s it.”

“What’s ‘it?”

“Karkaroff. He supposedly died in Azkaban, but it was rumored that he ran his own purist cult after Voldemort was unseated and Death Eaters went into hiding. This man might be one of them, and if that’s the case, there will be more where he came from. And if this man gets word back to whomever he answers to, you’ll be exposed as well.” Draco looked up at her again, this time in concern. Hermione closed her eyes.

She had left because of all of this; she had sworn that she would live out her days without fearing men from her past were out to get her. She had tried to escape. She had wanted to prevent this very event from happening--or at least something like it. She had hoped that, if her location was ever discovered, it would be by someone to had once loved her, like Harry or Ginny.

“You’re looking pale. Would you like me to call for an ambulance?” Draco asked.

Hermione looked at him. This would have seemed like a horrible nightmare if she had dreamed it, but instead, here she was, sitting with searing pain and a broken leg at 2:30 in the morning, with Draco Malfoy as her only means of getting medical help.

“I have a car,” she said, finally.

“Excellent. Where do you keep your keys?” Draco asked, striding towards the bar. Hermione ground her teeth.

“Listen here,” she said. He stopped and turned back to her. “I don’t want to play ‘reunion’ with you. I don’t owe you my whole sob story. You’re just going to take me to A&E, and then you’re going to leave me the hell alone. Got it?”

Draco nodded.

“Good. My keys and purse are through there,” she said, pointing to a closed door behind the bar. “Hanging on a hook.”

Draco retrieved her things and approached her tentatively.

“Pull the car around front. It’s the black beater in back,” she said, pointing towards the pub’s rear entrance, which lead out to a small car park and patio. “I’ll hobble myself to the front door. And don’t try anything funny; I got an O in wandless magic.”

Soon enough, Hermione was riding in the passenger seat of her own Muggle car, while Draco Malfoy drove the both of them through a torrent of rain to the local hospital. And that wasn’t even the strangest part.


	2. Like a Remorseful Pardon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione must face that she's stuck with Draco, for now.

He kept glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. Hermione glowered. He lived in Dublin, too, apparently, so there was no need to give him directions to the hospital, and therefore no reason to speak. How had she lived in Dublin for so long and never realized that he lived there too? Her one connection would likely have mentioned Malfoy if it was known that he lived nearby. Maybe his move to Dublin was recent. He’d said that he had lived in Ireland for nearly ten years… but where? Hermione reminded herself that she didn’t care where he had been for all that time, only that he returned there posthaste. He handled her little car with ease, despite the rain. 

“Are you comfortable?” he asked. She glared at him and gestured towards her knee.

“I forgot. We’re not speaking,” he said with a chuckle. “Mimed conversation only.”

“I will stab you with the shards of bone floating around in my leg if you do not shut up,” she said.

“What’s the point?” he asked. “We’re in this car together for only a few more minutes, and then we’ll never see each other again. Might as well talk about something we have in common.”

Hermione considered this. She was curious about how he had wound up in her particular pub. She sighed. “Fine. How did you wind up in my pub?”

“Let’s see. I got kicked out of Stag’s Head for fighting, and I wandered a bit. Got my petty cash stolen at the ATM around the corner, after I’d decided to pop into the Snake and Otter for a pint. So your lovely bartender got me knackered on cheap scotch until I passed out.”

Hermione snorted. “You still owe me €175.”

“Well, that’s not my worst tab,” he said, sounding slightly impressed with himself for showing restraint. He followed the signs for the hospital’s emergency entrance and pulled the little car underneath the covered drop-off area. He parked and hopped out of the car, holding his hands out and motioning for Hermione to stay seated. He ran inside and returned momentarily with a wheelchair. He opened the passenger side door.

“That is not necessary. I’ll walk,” she said, trying to reach out and push the wheelchair away.

“Don’t be an idiot, Granger. You’re just a wheelchair ride away from being rid of me.” He gestured to the chair.

“Fine. But I can do it myself.” She gritted her teeth and swung her legs out of the car. The moment she stood on her good leg, pain shot through the broken one and she crumpled. Draco lunged forward and caught her with an arm around her waist. She cried out in pain and curled her fingers into his shirt to steady herself. 

“I’ve got you,” he said softly. Hermione winced as he lowered her into the chair slowly. He lifted up the footrest and grasped her ankle, helping it meet the footpad without banging against it. She gripped the armrests until her knuckles were white. Draco wheeled her into the lobby of A&E, which was blessedly empty of waiting patients. 

It hadn’t been long since she had last been in this waiting room. Waiting for Dermot to be conscious again. Leaving by herself. So recent that she hadn’t yet changed her name back to ‘Granger’ officially, so when the nurse was ready to take her back to her own room, she called out a different name: Mrs. Wells.

Draco shot her a look, but said nothing about this unfamiliar name. Instead, he held out his hand to shake. When she did not take it, he shrugged.

“Well, this is farewell, Granger,” Draco said. He held out the keys to her little car.

“The least you could do is give my car to valet,” she ground out. He tossed the keys up and caught them again. 

“Right. I’ll take care of your… pest problem as well,” he said. “Where shall I put your…” He swished his finger in the air to indicate a wand. “...remote for safe keeping?”

“Doesn’t matter where,” she said. “Somewhere behind the bar. There aren’t any guests to find it. Just lock up, will you?”

Draco nodded. “Who will help you get home?”

“That’s not really your business.” Hermione nodded to the nurse, who sidled between Draco and the back handles of Hermione’s wheelchair. He stepped aside and watched her disappear through the double doors.

*

Hermione’s return to the Snake and Otter was facilitated by potent pain medication, a hip-high plaster cast, and Maura, Hermione’s right hand woman. By the time her Muggle car rumbled up behind the pub, it was nearing 1 pm.

And, as it happened, Draco Malfoy was sitting on the back patio, smoking the last of a cigarette, with no shoes on and his trousers cuffed above his ankles. And what a sight he was, hair mussed, sporting jaunty tinted sunglasses on the end of his nose. As the black car pulled to a halt, he looked just over the edge of the lenses, put his cigarette out on the arm of his chair, and one corner of his mouth curled upwards in an impish grin. 

Hermione groaned.

“Do you want me to shoo ‘im?” Maura asked. Hermione glanced at her trusted friend and only employee, who was trying her damndest not to laugh.

“I’d be happier if you shot him,” Hermione grumbled. 

“So he’s an old school friend, you say?”

“Ha! Far from it,” Hermione scoffed. “We have history. None of it good.”

“Oh my…” Maura chuckled. “What sort of  _ history _ ?”

Hermione batted Maura’s shoulder. “Not  _ that sort _ of history! Ugh… perish the thought.” 

“Hermione,  _ look _ at that precious man waggling his fingers at you!” Maura chuckled. Draco was certainly doing just that; he seemed giddy at the chance to speak to her and relish her pain, or humiliate her, or some such thing.

“Let’s get one thing straight,” Hermione said, grabbing her friend’s arm. “Draco Malfoy is neither precious or a man. He’s a ferret, and a reaper of chaos. If he hadn’t come into my pub, that burglar never would’ve attacked me.”

“Oh, I don’t know if that’s true. Maybe he’s the reason you’re still kicking!” 

“You’re taking far too much pleasure in my misery,” Hermione said. 

“So we are…  _ not _ encouraging him to stay for tea.”

“ _ We _ hate him,” Hermione confirmed.

“We do.” Maura agreed, though her face said otherwise as she glanced back at Draco. She considered him for a moment. “We can’t sit in this car forever, so… tell me what you want me to do with the chancer.”

“He is easily culled with a swift punch to the nose. That I can tell you from experience.”

“I couldn’t punch that gorgeous face,” Maura sighed. Then she realized Hermione was glaring at her. “I mean… uh--what kinda name is Draco, anyway? Where’s he from, Transylvania?”

“That’s the spirit!” Hermione laughed. “Come on, help me get out of this bloody car.” 

Maura jumped out of the driver’s seat and ran around the side of the car to open the door for Hermione, only to be met by Draco at the handle. Maura looked at Hermione and shrugged. She gestured for Draco to go right ahead. Hermione glared at her friend.  _ Traitor _ , she mouthed.

“May I assist you?” Draco asked, swinging open the door. “Blimey, Granger, that’s a clunker of a cast.”

“What a bloody gentleman,” Hermione muttered. “What are you still doing here?”

“Well,” he began, retrieving a pair of crutches from the back seat of the car, “you said that it wasn’t my business what happened to you, but if it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t have gotten hurt. So I figure I owe you. Simple as that.” He held out a hand for her to take.

“You could better atone by leaving me alone,” she said. His face fell.

“Merlin. I knew you hated me but I didn’t realize how much,” he said. He wiggled his fingers for her to take his hand. “Doesn’t change the fact that I’m sorry for what happened.”

“Which time?” Hermione snapped. A knowingness zinged between them but this was not the place to hash out the last twenty years of their lives--especially not with a Muggle present. Hermione took his hand reluctantly. Draco wound his arm behind her back and lifted her out of her seat. With Maura’s help, she was able slip the crutches under her arms and balance, even with how much heavier her leg was in the massive cast. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t believe we’ve met,” Draco said, holding his hand out to Maura.

“Maura, this is Draco Malfoy,” Hermione said, hobbling towards the back door of the pub. 

“We have met, though I'm certain you don't remember,” Maura said. She skirted around Hermione to get the door. “Tell me, Mister Malfoy, now that you’ve got your wits about you, why aren’t you wearing any shoes?”

He laughed. “Well, Ms. Maura, I just stepped out for my morning smoke when you arrived. I kept watch over the place while the landlady was away.”

“That wasn’t necessary!” Hermione called over her shoulder.

“Actually, it was,” Draco said. “A guest checked in quite late.” Hermione stopped walking.

“Why didn’t you ask this guest to find accommodations elsewhere?” Hermione asked.

“He wasn’t fit to travel,” he said. “You see, the poor lad passed out almost as soon as he arrived.”

Hermione groaned. Draco was supposed to get rid of the burglar, not find the man a room. “And you didn’t think to call the police to get him?”

“Why? You didn’t call the  _ police _ on  _ me _ last night. Besides, I didn’t like the idea of the pub sitting unguarded. If that man thought he could break in and attack you, the chances are very good that he has cohorts.” Draco scratched his chin and shrugged.

Maura whistled. “Well, we can be glad that you were here, Mister Malfoy, though you, yourself, were deep in your cups at the time!”

“I sobered up quite quickly, as Ms. Granger will attest,” Draco said. Hermione rolled her eyes.

“She’s lucky you were here,” Maura said, heading for the stairs. “I’ll just check on our guest, shall I?”

Draco ran past her and paused with both hands on the railings. “Ms. Granger needs you more than that poor sod,” he said lightly. “I’ll just peer in and see if he’s awake.”

“Suits me,” Maura said. “Thanks, Mister Malfoy.”

“Please, call me Draco,” he said with an innocent grin. Hermione leaned against the counter and sighed deeply. She would not be rid of him as soon as she would like. Maura laughed as Draco skipped up the stairs.

“I like him,” she said. “Even if you don’t.”

“You have no idea,” Hermione said. “Come on, help me get my clothes changed and we can get the brunch service going.”

“We don’t have to open up for brunch,” Maura said. “Paddy O’Leary will survive one day without his fried egg and hash.”

“I don’t think he’ll make it without his breakfast beer, however,” Hermione laughed. 

“Perhaps you’re right. Fine, we’ll open up, if you tell me why you can’t stand that adorable scamp that we apparently hate.” Maura crossed her arms and raised her eyebrows expectantly.

“You’re asking me to go all the way upstairs  _ and _ regale you with my lifelong hatred for that git? I don’t have the energy!” Hermione said.

“I will go retrieve you a nice outfit and I’ll help you change in the loo, while you dish.” Maura threw her hands up. “I’m a genius!” She pranced out the back door and presumably upstairs, into Hermione’s apartment above the bar, leaving Hermione teetering by herself. She leaned her crutches against the bar and hopped down the way until she could reach just below the till. Her usual hiding spot for her wand was empty. Drat. She wondered where Draco had hidden it. She was pretty rusty with wandless casting--especially  _ Accio _ , but she needed it. If for no other reason than to put up every possible ward and get rid of that Slytherin ponce for good. Or at least confund him into forgetting where she lived. And wipe that self-aggrandizing smirk off his face. Speaking of Malfoy, he bounded back down the stairs, this time with his shoes on, and a very fancy jacket that looked far too elegant for her little Irish paradise.

“Why didn’t you get rid of him like you said?” Hermione whispered fiercely. Draco looked around for Maura and held out his hand to calm her.

“I couldn’t use side-along or Portkey him away. I tried, but I think his mark prevents it,” Draco said. “Which reminds me--don’t touch the alarm clock in room 5, lest you find yourself in the middle of the Sahara. And I couldn’t just drag him down the street! Besides, we need answers.”

“No,  _ you _ need answers,” she said, jabbing him in the chest. “This has nothing to do with me!”

Draco grabbed her wrist. “But what if it does?” he whispered. 

“He ignored me,” Hermione said, trying to wrench her hand from his grip. “He only went for me when I tried to get him to leave you alone.”

“I haven’t thanked you properly for that,” he said. “But we don’t know that he wasn’t here for you, too.” He released her hand. He reached into his jacket and produced her wand. She took it back quickly and held the point to his throat.

“What if  _ you _ are the one trying to get to me?” she offered.

Draco swallowed slowly. “Hermione, you have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?” she demanded. She pulled up her sleeve to bear the one physical scar she had left from the war in which they were both involved. The raised letters still looked freshly healed.  _ Mudblood _ . She shook her sleeve back down and returned her wand to his neck. Draco grasped the arm of hers that brandished the wand and gently urged her to lower it. When she did, he pulled up his own sleeve. His forearm was also plagued with a scar; a Dark Mark that couldn’t be removed--though from the look of his puckered skin, he had tried, by one means or another. He unbuttoned his high collar and pulled the shirt to the side to bear a jagged purple line that cut from his clavicle downward.

“I think,” he began, looking down at their feet, “that we both intimately understand what might be at stake, if someone is after one or both of us. All I am suggesting is that it would behoove us to figure it out  _ here _ , while we have the man captive.”

Hermione sighed. “How can I possibly trust you?” she breathed. She fought back angry tears.

“What would it take for you to trust me?” he asked. He carded a hand through his hair in frustration. “Do you want me to bleed for what I did to you when we were  _ children _ ?”

Hermione pressed her hands together to steady them. How could she even begin to explain what she had done for the last decade to forget what she had endured during the war? She felt a traitorous tear fall on her cheek. “I came here… to be safe,” she said, “and I’m not safe. I thought I could have a life without all of  _ that _ . We lost so many… but I’ve still lost people, here. I wonder what I did to deserve it.”

Draco’s brow furrowed deeply. When she finally brought herself to look at him, his own eyes were glossy. Which, it turns out, only made her tears flow more freely. The sound of Maura’s well-weathered boots clanked at the bottom of the outer stairs. Hermione quickly wiped her eyes on her sleeves and shoved her wand down inside her cast. Maura stopped at the sight of them.

“Hermione? Are you well?” she asked. Hermione could only nod as she tried to pull herself together.

“She fell over while you were upstairs,” Draco offered. “Her pain medication must have worn off.”

“I nearly fainted,” Hermione said.

“Oh! I’m sorry, love.” Maura touched Hermione’s shoulder in reassurance. “Come on, we’ll get you changed.” Maura helped her hobble to the spacious Ladies’ washroom. Hermione didn’t dare look back at Draco. Like it or not, she was stuck with him for now.

“If you’re going to stick around, you might as well make yourself useful and start turning over all the chairs for brunch,” Hermione said to Draco over her shoulder. 

“As you wish,” he said softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think, my loves? Will it come to blows with Hermione and Draco? Who does their attacker answer to?


	3. How Apt it is To Learn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mystery man is interrogated.

“We’re burning daylight,” Draco whispered.

“I can’t get up those stairs in order to look at him! Why can’t you just observe him on your own?” Hermione asked in a quiet huff. Maura was still washing dishes from brunch, while Hermione stubbornly insisted on polishing pint glasses, just to do _something_. Draco was wiping down tables, when he wasn’t pestering her about the man upstairs.

Draco braced against the counter and threw his rag down. “I don’t have the slightest knowledge of runes or religious symbols, and if my memory serves, you received high marks in Ancient Runes. Maybe _you_ can figure out what all of his marks mean. Which is why you _need_ to let me help you upstairs.”

“Marks? He has more than just the one under his eye?” Hermione asked, leaning forward.

“Ah! So you _are_ interested!” Draco smirked.

“Stuff it,” she sighed. “Just tell me.”

“He’s got them just here,” Draco said, pointing to his chin and trailing a finger down to his sternum. Hermione pressed a finger to her temple.

“Could be druidic,” she said.

“I don’t think so,” he said. He sat on a stool and reached over the counter for a pint glass and began polishing it. “The marks are based on circles and repetition--almost lunar.”

“You don’t think it has something to do with Fenrir Greyback?” Hermione was lightheaded at the thought. She crossed her arms.

“Well, that would make sense why I was the target,” Draco said. “I haven’t the faintest idea where he ended up. I heard Azkaban, but he could have disciples.”

“A coven?” Hermione suggested. Draco shrugged. “I don’t remember Greyback having those sort of marks.”

“Who knows if we would have been able to see them under all that… fur.” Draco shivered involuntarily. Hermione sighed and leaned forward.

“I don’t like this,” she whispered. “I don’t like being involved in this.”

Draco looked down at the glass in his hands. Maura opened the door to the kitchen and whistled happily.

“My, my! Mister Malfoy, you may make yourself indispensable to this fine establishment, if you keep up this fine work!” Maura said. She nudged Hermione with her hip. Hermione gave her a look. “Well! I think I’ll just pop down to the butcher for our weekly order. Do you want anything while I’m out?”

Draco smiled brightly at Maura and Hermione watched her friend blush a little. “Maura, would you terribly mind picking up a pack of cigarettes for me? I’ll pay you back when you return,” he said.

“I think that could be arranged,” Maura smirked. “But it’s a nasty habit, Mister Malfoy!”

“Nobody’s perfect,” he said with a grin.

“What’s your poison?”

“Oh, I’m not terribly picky,” Draco said. “Something filtered--but smooth.”

“Much like yourself, I think. Well then,” Maura said, laughing. “Don’t worry about paying me; we’ll just add it to your tab.” She grinned, squeezed Hermione’s elbow, retrieved her purse from beneath the cash register and flounced out the door.

“That’s convenient,” Hermione grumbled.

Draco smirked. “I may or may not have asked her to give us some time alone,” he admitted.

Hermione threw her rag at him. “She is going to think that there is something going on between us, you idiot!”

“I’m counting on it,” Draco said. Hermione covered her eyes. “What? It’s better that she assume we’re having a torrid romance than discover what is hiding in room five. I assume she _doesn’t_ know that you’re the Brightest Witch of Your Age?”

“She doesn’t know anything, and I’ll thank you to keep it that way,” Hermione said.

“Yes, you will,” he said. “I won’t give you up, Hermione. I know the law. I’m not entirely without sense.”

Hermione sighed deeply. There was no reason she should go forward with this plan--it was a recipe for disaster. She needed to think. Alone. She needed the be self-sufficient and be able to change her own clothing in her own apartment.

“Do you propose to _carry_ me upstairs? Because if that’s your plan, you can forget it,” Hermione said.

“That won’t be necessary,” Draco said. “With Maura gone, I’ll just bring him down here for us to examine.”

“She won’t be gone _that long_.”

“I asked her for quite a long stretch,” he admitted.

“How long?” Hermione scoffed.

Draco scratched his head. “I might have asked for… three hours?”

“Oh, you’re going to ruin my life,” Hermione said. “Well, go on! Get the poor idiot. Might as well lay him out on the bar if we have three whole hours to observe him. With that amount of time, we might be able to figure out his blood type and his ideal first date!”

Draco thought better of a witty retort and skipped up the stairs two at a time.

*

With the man stretched out on the bar, and the assistance of a magnifying glass, Hermione was able to get a closer look at the runes Draco had described. They were indeed lunar, with repeating concentric circles. They looked almost alphabetical, and spelled out some sort of mysterious allegiance, though to whom she couldn’t be certain.

“We must un-petrify him,” Hermione said. “I believe that will be the only way to get answers from him, at this point. These runes are beyond even my extensive research.”

“Do you think that’s wise?” Draco asked.

“I’m certain it isn’t,” she said. Draco nodded. He stood behind the bar, while she braced against the bar on the other side of the unconscious man. Draco pointed his wand at the man.

“ _Incarcerous!_ ” Draco said. Thick ropes leapt from the end of his wand and wrapped themselves around the man. “All right, go on.”

“ _Finite Incantatum!_ ” she said. The man’s body lurched sharply as the petrification was lifted, but he remained unconscious.

Draco  glanced at her over the man’s body. “You ready?”

Hermione nodded.

“ _Renervate!_ ” Draco said.

Their captive’s eyes snapped open. He squirmed against his ropes, but Draco and Hermione pressed their wands on either side of his neck.

“Why are you here?” Draco asked. The man grinned and shook his head slightly. “Are you after me?”

The man said nothing. Hermione pointed her wand towards the back wall filled with bottles. “ _Accio Veritaserum!_ ” she called. The green bottle flew into her hands. She shook the bottle. “We can make you.”

“Won’t work,” the man snickered. “Occlumens. And I know what you’re thinking, Mrs. Wells; I can see right through you.”

Hermione looked at Draco and raised an eyebrow. Draco tapped a finger on his lips. “I’m not above torture,” he said nonchalantly.

“You wouldn’t. The Ministry would track you,” the man said.

“Oh, dear boy, you mistake me,” Draco said. “I am not so foolish as to cast an Unforgivable. But I am quite skilled with a knife. Mrs. Wells, where do you keep your _big_ knives?”

“You’ll find a machete underneath the bar, Mr. Malfoy, but it’s much too sharp for torture,” Hermione said.

“Do your worst,” their captive said. “But I’m sure that Mrs. Helena Wells wouldn’t want blood spilled so soon after her husband’s death.” He smiled at her as if he had discovered her deepest secret of all--lucky that Dermot’s passing so plagued her mind, if only to block the man from seeing the truth. That she was a member of the Golden Trio, and that she could fetch a reward even larger than the discovery of Draco Malfoy.

“Yes, that _would_ be dreadful,” Hermione said brightly. “Best to drown him, Mister Malfoy.”

“Oh, I do _loathe_ a drowning,” Malfoy huffed.

“I can hold my breath for a real long time,” the man said.

“Well that settles that,” Hermione sighed. “I suppose we could slowly starve him to death.”

“Yes, but for how long?” Draco asked. “After a week he’ll be dead from hunger and we won’t know anything.”

“You don’t know the meaning of hunger,” the man said.

Draco’s face lit up in realization. He pointed his wand at the man. “ _Stupefy!_ ” The man went limp.

“I knew it. He was meant to infect me,” Draco said.

“How could you possibly have known that? We only just suspected his werewolf ties,” Hermione said.

“How did _he_ come to think that your name is “Helena Wells”--let alone that you were married?” Draco asked.

“He’s not the only Legilimens in this room,” Hermione said. “Besides, that _is_ my legal name.”

“But Maura calls you ‘Hermione’...”

“Only when we’re not in front of customers,” she said. “I asked her many years ago to call me Mrs. W when we’re at work. That’s what my customers call me, too. Even though I’m not a Mrs. anymore.” She twisted her fingers together.

“So…” Draco braced a hand on his hip and leaned against the counter. “You’ve become a Legilimens since Hogwarts.”

“I have become a lot of things,” she said.

“Clearly.” Draco studied her more clearly than she was comfortable with. She shrank under his gaze, and slipped the bottle of Veritaserum into her pocket.

“I’m tired,” she said, absently. Draco nodded. He gestured to the back door. “I’ll help you. If you want.”

“Yes, thank you.”

Draco grabbed her crutches from behind the bar and brought them to her. She slipped them under her arms and braced against them. “What about him?”

“I’ll take care of him,” Draco said.

“You won’t kill him,” she said, less as a question than a request.

“I’m not sure how to get rid of him, I’ll admit, but I’ll think of something,” Draco said. Hermione hazarded a glance back at the unconscious werewolf on her bar and shook her head. Draco followed her out the back door. She leaned her crutches against the railing and looked at Draco expectantly. She sighed and gestured for him to prop her up beneath her left shoulder. Her right leg was throbbing as she leaned her weight into his side.

“Just help me hop my way up, I guess,” she said.

“I can lift you,” he said. “It’s no problem.”

Why not? At this point, the world was upside down; she might as well allow Draco Malfoy to carry her up her own stairs. She nodded. Draco tightened his grip around her waist, wound her left arm around his neck, and grasped her wrist in his left hand. He bent his knees, braced his forearm under her rib cage, and lifted her easily. He took his time, one step at a time, and by the time he reached the top step, he was hardly winded. Her blouse had worked its way up in the course of the short trip and his hand firmly supported itself against her smooth stomach. Hermione felt her ears grow hot, but Draco appeared not to notice. Instead, he set her gently down on the upper landing and made certain she could hold her own weight against the upper railing. He popped down the stairs to retrieve her crutches and back up again, while she smoothed her rumpled clothing.

She must have looked upset when he returned because he stepped back down a step once she was firmly supported by her crutches once again, to give her space.

“Don’t worry. Now that I know what he was after, I’ll be out of your hair tonight,” Draco said.

“What about the prospect that I, too, might be in danger?” Hermione asked.

“Mrs. Helena Wells, I think you’re more than capable of taking care of yourself,” he said, with a faint hint of admiration. Hermione frowned and pointed to her right leg.

“I’m not a fool; if I wasn’t here to help you, I think you would’ve tried to go up here anyway,” Draco said. “But I’ll make sure you’re safe before I go.”

Hermione didn’t really know what to say. So she nodded, unlocked her door, and disappeared behind the safety of the green wood. She pressed her forehead to the door and sighed. A werewolf was lying unconscious downstairs, while her childhood tormentor babysat. A man who had been her nemesis, by all intents and purposes, had just carried her up a flight of stairs. It then occurred to her that she hadn’t made any sort of arrangement for getting back downstairs again. Ah, well… if it came to it, she’d do something completely mad and slide down the bannister. Might as well, at this point.


	4. I See You Are Unarmed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An attack makes allies of us all.

A hand clasped over her mouth and Hermione jerked awake. Maura sat beside her bed, petrified and shaking, and held a finger to her lips, urging Hermione to remain quiet. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Hermione nodded and clasped her friend’s hand tightly. Maura pointed downward, and then to her ears, encouraging Hermione to listen intently.

The two women exchanged a look of horror a the sound of a hollow crash from below.

“Help me up,” Hermione whispered. Maura took her elbow and Hermione slowly swung her legs over the side of the bed. She leaned into Maura and pushed to stand, but Maura was shaking so hard that she could barely keep a grip on Hermione’s arm. “What happened?” Hermione asked, grabbing Maura’s hands.

Maura pulled the collar of her shirt away from her skin. In the faint light from the sun peeking through her shutters, Hermione could just make out a purple bruise on Maura’s shoulder. “Mister Malfoy… he said I should leave…” She stopped. 

Hermione’s face fell. “He didn’t hurt you, though.” From the look of her friend, Hermione knew that Maura had come in contact with their mystery guest, in some fashion. From the sound of the commotion below, Draco had been unsuccessful in getting rid of the unconscious man. Damn him, she thought. 

Maura covered her mouth and shook her head. She sniffed. “I came back early--I forgot my wallet,” she whispered. “Mister Malfoy was laying on the ground behind the bar and a massive dog was pacing back and forth. As soon as it heard me come in, it ran at me. I ran into the doorway trying to get out the back door and it bit me on my shoulder. Didn’t break the skin, thank the lord.” She wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “Mister Malfoy must’ve woken up. He waved a stick at the dog and it yelped, and he told me I should leave,” Maura repeated.

Hermione nodded. She reached down and pulled her wand from its hiding place inside her leg cast. “Did the stick look sort of like this?” she said.

Maura said that it did. “All right,” Hermione said. “I need you to help me downstairs.”

“It’s still not safe.” Maura’s tears had stopped, but her eyes were wide. “I should’ve called animal control, or the police--”

“Hush. It’ll be all right,” Hermione said. “Come on. You’re strong, you’ve just had a fright. We must help Draco and then we’ll take care of the dog.”

Maura nodded once, straightened up, and squeezed Hermione’s hand.

They descended the stairs together; Hermione was certain that they would be heard, but it didn’t matter, since the Animagus, as she now knew him to be, was already on the offensive. If Draco was unable to regain the upper hand, they would need to prepare for a fight. “Maura, I’ll get my keys from the back hallway.  I want you to go sit in the car with the engine running,” Hermione said. “If anyone but me or Draco comes out of this door, I want you to try to stop them from getting away. I’m not saying run them over, but--”

“What do you mean?” Maura gasped. “Who else could be in there?”

“I will let you know when it’s safe to come back inside,” Hermione said. She put her hand on the door handle and depressed the latch carefully. She opened the door a crack and listened. She couldn’t hear a thing. 

Hermione pushed the door open a bit more so she could see down the long hallway and into the bar. Several tables were flipped over and chairs were strewn across the room, or entirely broken. She could see Draco’s shoulder; he sat on the floor, behind the bar, against the back wall. He was clutching his arm, but he was conscious. Hermione’s gaze flicked up to the coat hooks in the back hallway, where her keys and a several coats were hanging. She pointed her wand at the keys.

“ _ Accio keys! _ ” she whispered. The flew from the rack and into her hand with a faint jingle. Draco’s head turned slowly to look over his shoulder. As soon as he saw her, his eyes closed in relief. She held up one finger and slipped back outside. 

“Could you see anything?” Maura asked.

“Draco is all right,” Hermione said. “Here.” She handed the keys to Maura. “Remember what I said.” 

Maura ran to the car and hopped inside. The car doors locked, the engine roared to life, and Maura was protected for the time being. 

Hermione held her wand out before her and pushed the back door open. She wasn’t going to be much of a fighter if it came to blows; her leg was killing her, the pain medication had long worn off, and she could hardly hobble with that massive cast… but she had once been a formidable witch, and she could no longer pretend that magical threats didn’t exist. 

She listened for any sign of the dog. The only sound she could make out was a faint, low, whine. She ventured further into the hallway, pulling her great big cast along with a notable scrape. Draco looked back at her again. She waved her wand at him and he held up two empty hands. 

“Where is your wand?” she mouthed. He pointed over the counter, and then pointed at his arm, which he grasped. Then, he pointed towards the kitchen. His white shirt was ripped at the shoulder. Hermione gestured for Draco to come to her. He pushed against the wall to get onto his feet. Suddenly, he pitched forward and was pulled backwards, disappearing around the corner. 

“Draco,” Hermione gasped. She hobbled as quickly as she could towards the bar, and peered around the corner. He was nowhere to be seen. The kitchen was a safe bet. Hermione took a deep breath. “Here, little pooch,” she called. A low growl echoed from the kitchen. “Don’t you want a treat? I’ll trade you a milkbone for the ferret!” She peeked around the kitchen doorway. The dog, a feral-looking bear of a dog with russet fur, had its jaws around Draco’s neck. Draco was conscious, but he peered at her through slits, silently pleading for her to get away while she still could.

“There now,” she breathed. “No reason to do anything rash.” She pointed her wand right at the dog’s head. “I’ve got the wand, here, so you can just transfigure back and we’ll take you into custody.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, despite his delicate position. They were in no mood to negotiate with a dog, even if it was a transfigured wizard in disguise. Still, he had to admire her stupidity.

She smiled, then, and laughed. “It’s comical; you make quite an adorable dog, and I just can’t take you seriously!” She doubled over giggling.

The dog slowly released its grip on Draco’s neck. Hermione waved her hand at him and wiped her eyes, still chuckling. “Oh dear… I’m sorry--I think it’s the tail!” She leaned against the door frame. The dog stepped over Draco. He stalked towards the witch. Hermione shrugged. “Oh my. Merlin’s beard, how rude of me!  _ Homorphus! _ ” Blue sparks shot from the end of her wand. The dog leaped at her and the spell hit him squarely between the eyes. Hermione stepped back; the dog remained a dog, and the spell had little effect except to disorient his vision for a moment. 

Draco rolled to his side and breathed heavily, clutching his throat. 

Hermione silently cast  _ Petrificus Totalus! _ The dog dodged the white bolt and knocked Hermione to the ground. Her head knocked against the floorboards. Her vision blurred but for the unmistakable outline of growling jaws just above her nose. The beast drooled on her cheek. Hermione cringed in pain. 

Suddenly, the beast froze, and a whine groaned from deep in the back of its throat. The beast slowly became a man once more, and collapsed on top of Hermione. She gasped and shoved the naked dead man off. Draco stood above her, holding a bloodied knife. He dropped it into the sink. He leaned against the counter to catch his breath. Hermione covered her face and couldn’t stop herself from tearing up. 

“Merlin,” Draco said. He looked at Hermione, who still lay on the floor, in the doorway, attempting not to sob. He went to her and held out his hands. She wiped her eyes. She let him help her sit up. “How’s your head?” he asked, inspecting her pupils to make sure they were dilating properly.

She nodded. Draco grabbed under her arms and lifted her to her feet. She swayed and gripped onto his sleeves to stay standing. He propped his arm around her waist and helped her to one of the high-backed barstools, pulling her broken leg up so it rested on the stool beside her. Hermione watched him search for his wand, which he found underneath the remnants of the corner booth. He sat, then, on the last step of the staircase leading up to the guest rooms. Hermione waited--she wanted him to be the one to talk. About anything, about the Animagus, whatever. She didn’t trust her voice. And she hadn’t been the one with jaws around her neck.

Draco finally looked up at her and ran a hand through his hair.

“I intended to question him again,” he began. “If I could figure out why he followed me  _ here _ , and not just to Dublin, if you were a target too… I thought it would be worth it. To know, for certain.”

Hermione sighed, though she entirely understood the impulse that had compelled him to let the man speak.

“But he transfigured as soon as I unpetrified him,” Draco said. “I am incredibly out of my depth, as it turns out.”

“He was strong,” Hermione offered. "And not a werewolf, after all." Draco nodded.

“He disarmed me at once. He would have killed me if Maura hadn’t gone for you. Poor Maura--she must have had a shock.” He looked as though he felt terribly guilty.

“She was bitten while you were unconscious,” Hermione said. “But she’s going to be fine. She’s outside in the car, safe.”

Draco rubbed his face. “I’ve never encountered an Animagus that strong. Not ever. I consider myself to be quick on the draw, and he had me pinned to the ground before I could blink.”

“He’s dead, now,” Hermione said. “No thanks to my skills with a wand, either.”

Draco stood and walked to her. “If you hadn’t taunted him, who knows what would have happened.” He smiled kindly, which wasn’t entirely a bad look for him--just an unfamiliar one. Draco extended his hand to her. “Can we shake hands, as friends? We just defeated a rabid dog, and I think even our past… disagreements can be forgotten in this case.” Hermione offered her hand and clasped his. Draco stepped into the handshake; Hermione realized he was bleeding on the side of his neck and she reached up to touch the skin just below his ear. He shivered.

“You’re hurt,” she said, when he winced. She gestured for him to come closer she she could look at the bite marks. They weren’t deep, but they had drawn blood. She wiped away the blood with her sleeve. He would be all right.

Draco turned into the the touch of her hand and Hermione’s fingers curled into the nape of his neck. “Thank you,” he breathed. He couldn’t stop himself from leaning down and pressing his lips to hers. He felt desperate for it. Hermione pulled back just as quickly but her gaze lingered on his lips. She prevented herself from a repeat performance by tucking her head beneath his chin and wrapping her arms around his torso. He lifted her off her seat, even lowered her broken leg gently to the ground, and buried his face in the crook of her neck.

“I don’t want to talk about when we were children,” she whispered. 

“If that’s what you want,” he agreed. 

Her fingers tugged on the back of his shirt and he pulled back just enough to make eye contact with her. “We must go to the Ministry,” she said. Draco swallowed hard. “I know. But if there are more like  _ him _ , we obviously are going to need backup.”

“ _ We _ had better be careful about who we decide to contact. Someone who would help the both of us,” he said. He brushed an errant hair out of her face. 

“Luna Lovegood would do it,” she said. “She’s the only person left who I still… know.” 

“I never knew her well, which probably means that I could trust her, too.”

“She doesn’t have an agenda,” Hermione said. “And she is an Auror, now.”

“I don’t know,” he chuckled. “It sounds like an agenda, if she works for the Ministry. They don’t much like Me.”

“Nor Me,” she said. “But they don’t have to like us in order to help us put a stop to this. Whatever “it” is.”

“What do we do about Maura?” Draco asked. Hermione pressed her forehead to his chest and sighed again. “Do you want me to Obliviate her?” he asked gently.

“No,” Hermione said. “She doesn’t have a life aside from this place, and despite being a bartender, she’s a steel trap.” Hermione looked up at him again. “We can’t take her with us, can we?”

“I couldn’t leave this place anyway,” Maura said, leaning against the bar. Hermione paled. Draco smiled over Hermione’s head, but he didn’t let her go. He didn’t want to.

“I’m hoping you’ll explain why there’s a naked man behind my bar,” Maura said. “Wait…” She gasped and stepped back abruptly. “Is he… dead?”

“He’s the guest that checked in late last night,” Draco offered. “He set his dog on me when I went to check on him. Chased me all the way down here. I felt terrible doing it, but I had to put the dog down. Then  _ he _ attacked me.”

“Where’s the dog now?” Maura asked, eyes wide. She looked at the dead man as if he might get back up and attack  _ her _ , too.

“In the kitchen,” Hermione finally said. “Wouldn’t go in there.”

“You know, I’ve heard about strange men attacking innkeepers all over Dublin!” Maura said. “Thank goodness you were the one he crossed paths with, Mister Malfoy. It could’ve been the end of  _ me _ !”

Draco glanced at Hermione, who was smiling sadly. “I had better take care of the dog,” he said, more for Hermione’s benefit than Maura’s. It meant he was going to have to step away from her, even though he still felt magnetized to her. He needed to hold onto her. She nodded and allowed him to disentangle his arms from hers.

“I’ll call the police,” Hermione said. Draco dragged the man into the kitchen and shut the door behind him. 

“Maura, would you do me a huge favor and fetch me a new shirt?” Hermione gestured to the one she was wearing, which bore a small bloodstain from the dead man.

“Sure thing,” Maura said. “I suppose we won’t be opening up tonight, what with you leaving.”

“It won’t be for long,” Hermione said. “But if you’re right about this being a string of attacks, more people might be in danger.” 

_ “Draco _ might be in danger, you mean.” Maura smiled like the cat that ate the canary. “Would you like to explain yourself?”

“We’ll call it the ‘heat of the moment’, or something,” Hermione said. Maura cackled in delight.

“Oh, I see. Just the heat of the moment.”

“Yes,” Hermione said. “Maura, is your shoulder all right?”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” Maura called as she flounced out the back door to fetch Hermione a shirt.

Hermione went into the kitchen and shut the door behind her. She turned around slowly and leaned against the door. Draco was sitting on the kitchen island, sans shirt, with a wet rag on his arm to clean his second bite. He had pulled the dead man to the back corner of the kitchen and covered the man with one of her tablecloths. 

She went to him and took the rag from his hands. She smoothed the cloth over his bite until his blood was gone. He touched her cheek in thanks. She smiled. Hermione walked past him wordlessly to the fireplace and reached for a small jar of floo powder. She grabbed a small handful of powder and tossed it into the flames. “Calling Auror Lovegood!” she said.

It took just a few moments for Luna’s head to appear in the green flames. “Hermione!” she said, gingerly. “I wondered when I’d hear from you. How are you? It’s been years. And… Draco Malfoy?”


	5. In These Thoughts Myself Almost Despising

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco and Hermione find a kind of strange symmetry, and scores are settled. They decide what to do about the body.

Maura and Draco had taken care of the broken tables and chairs, pulling them out onto the back patio to be broken down and used as firewood. Maura chalked a message on the sandwich board sign to sit out front and it read: 

_ Mrs. W is on vacation! Get your pint from another watering hole. _

Meanwhile, Hermione caught up with Luna in the kitchen. By the time that Maura went home, they had caught up on plenty of old gossip, except for the biggest things; she didn’t want to know about Harry and the gang. This wasn’t a class reunion.

Eventually, Draco helped fill Luna in on what had happened. They shared their theories, and the latest--that they had realized it might be necessary to involve the Ministry. Luna was less certain.

“Mister Malfoy, if you Apparate onto English soil, you are likely to be immediately arrested, and I don’t believe I have to tell you why,” Luna said firmly. “I don’t think it’s wise for you to come here. I shouldn’t even be in communication with you, because if you  _ do _ decide to travel here, against my advice, I will have to tell them that yes, I have known that you were in Ireland for the last ten years, and I have concealed that fact for your safety. Do you want to make a liar out of me, Mister Malfoy?”

Draco opened his mouth to reply and promptly snapped it shut. He had secrets that could mean years in Ministry custody, things that they would not understand even if he tried to explain himself.

“So we don’t apparate,” Hermione said. “We’ll travel like Muggles. We’ll take a ferry across the the Irish sea, and then we’ll ride a train to London. It might only take a day, maybe two days tops?”

“You’re suggesting that we travel with a dead man in our luggage?” Draco scoffed.

“What about an expanding charm?” Hermione said. “I could charm my luggage and we could carry him discreetly. I’ve read about wizards secreting animals and such in their luggage, to mystify Muggle security and avoid getting tracked by the Ministry.”

“But those wizards weren’t on the run!” Draco exclaimed. He hopped to his feet and carded a hand through his hair in frustration. He walked to the far side of the kitchen, with his back to the fireplace.

“Is he  _ wanted _ ?” Hermione mouthed. Luna raised an eyebrow.

“I’ll leave it to him to decide whether or not he wants to explain, but yes. He is a person of interest in the death of his mother.” Luna sighed. “Let me know what you decide to do. If you want to travel by train, I’d like to arrange for a trustworthy contact to meet you at King’s Cross so we can delay Draco’s apprehension for as long as possible. If you decide to apparate, or travel by floo, you must come alone.”

“They’re after Me; there’s no reason for Hermione to travel to London without  _ Me _ ,” Draco said softly. He looked back over his shoulder at Hermione.

“Begging your pardon, but it was my pub that he nearly destroyed, and my leg that he broke,” Hermione said. “I believe I have a stake in this, too.”

“I don’t think he came for you,” he said. “I think you became a target because you defended me.” He leaned forward against the counter and folded his hands.

“I’m sorry that my involvement is inconvenient for you,” Hermione replied.

Draco narrowed his eyes. “I see that you’re upset. I’ll disappear. I’ll walk out that front door with a dead man under my arm and you will never see me again. If that’s what you really want.”

Hermione turned back to the fireplace. “I’ll let you know by midnight, Luna. Thank you.”

“I’ll support whatever plan you make,” Luna said. “But know that you’re going to have… opposition… if you both make the trip. Especially if you make it together. I think you know why.” Luna waved and Hermione nudged the logs on the fire, breaking the connection and ending their call. She sighed. Seeing Luna triggered a flood of glowing memories. 

She wanted to go back to the place she knew better than the back of her hand. She wanted to go to St. Mungo’s and have her leg fixed. She wanted to get a butterbeer in Hogsmeade. She wanted to see the lights of Hogwarts at night. Hermione felt nostalgia choking her, desperately trying to remind her of what she had  _ loved _ before she left it behind. Her friends from school, not just Luna… Her professors, too. And Hagrid… she hoped he was happy, wherever he was. She sniffed away a urge to cry. She wanted to go back so badly, and it was Draco’s fault, too. He had made those memories seem like five minutes ago, like they meant everything--like they accomplished nothing.

Draco sighed.

“What do you want to do?” Hermione whispered, with her back to him.

“I want to atone for what I did,” he said. “But I didn’t do this to you, Hermione.” He gestured to the dead man.

“Are you sure of that?” she asked. “I didn’t have any problems until you showed up.”

“Maura told me that you’re going bankrupt,” he said. 

Hermione laughed sadly. “Damn her.”

“I know that your husband died a year ago.”

“You don’t know anything,” she said, turning to look at him. “Are you trying to break me down?” She threw up her hands and the tears broke the surface. 

“No.” He folded his arms. “I just… I don’t know.” Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t think that getting to know each other is such a bad idea if we’re going to move forward. That’s all. And I think you’re mad at me for what happened out there because maybe you liked it!”

Hermione was shaking. “You want to ‘get to know me now’ but you don’t care about hurting me, and you think you can just pry up my pain and make me explain myself! Ugh! And this isn’t about that damned kiss.” 

Draco looked down at his hands. He felt guilty. He had seen that look on her face so many times when they were children; every time he had tormented her and sabotaged her potions, every time he had called her  _ Mudblood _ \--when he had kissed her. When she lay on the rug as he watched his aunt torture her. He had an uncanny ability for causing her pain. She was exhausted and easily irritable, but he had to admit that he still felt an impulse to prod her last nerve. Some things never change.

She covered her face with her hands. 

He sat on the island once more. It seemed like ages before he spoke; so long that Hermione glanced up to make sure he was still there, that he hadn’t disapparated or something.  

“When I was on a bender… I remember having a drunken inkling that I needed help from someone smarter than me. I walked past this place so many times but I never took notice of it; it’s not my scene. I prefer the neon polluted scene deeper in Temple Bar, but I saw you out front, fixing the writing on your sign. I thought I was hallucinating. I had already noticed a guy in a hooded sweatshirt tailing me, but I thought I was making him up, too.” Draco scratched his stubbly cheek. “Imagine my surprise when I hadn’t been imagining either of you.”

“And it made sense to you to find me, when you were plastered?” she asked quietly.

“I have never known anyone smarter than me, Granger, it makes sense that my gut instinct remembered your bushy intellect,” he said, without an ounce of malice (but perhaps the tiniest tease). “I didn’t know you were living here. I swear it. If I had known, I probably would have fled to Iceland.”

“Why?”

“Because there is no bigger threat to me than You.” He looked away. “There is  _ nobody _ who has bigger reasons to turn me into the Ministry than you.”

“I said I didn’t want to talk about that time--”

“Merlin, Hermione, we can’t pretend that it didn’t happen!” He braced his hands on his knees. “You were right to think you shouldn’t trust me; I’ve proven time and again that I’m not worth trusting. I kissed you, remember?” He scoffed at his own idiocy. 

“Why are you in hiding?” she asked. 

He held out a hand to her. “You’re a Legilimens. Why don’t you have a look?”

Hermione remained out of reach, but she cocked her head to the side. “Why would you allow me to do that? I would see things that you might not even be aware of--you would have to confront extremely painful things.”

“For who?” he said. “The only reason you haven’t read my mind yet is because I know how to block you out.”

“You’re an Occlumens, too?” 

“My aunt. Her only gift,” he sighed. “Hermione, you need to understand what is at stake, and what I am willing to risk to get that body to the Ministry. Including you seeing my inner-most secrets.”

“Or… you could just tell me,” she said, crossing her arms.

“You don’t believe me, no matter what I say. You might believe it if you saw for yourself.”

When she didn’t answer, Draco lay back on the island, with his hands behind his head. He closed his eyes and waited for her to decide on her own. 

Well, he wasn’t wrong, but she didn’t much love the idea of a trip down memory lane with him. Actually, she wanted him to leave her alone long enough to think. She sat on the kitchen stool, held her wand towards his head, and closed her eyes.

At first, his thoughts flickered and threatened to go black at the recognition of an invader, but then, an image of her, raising her hand to answer one of Professor Snape’s questions. How he most clearly remembered her--or perhaps what he thought was the essence of her. 

Then, the image shifted to a dark bedroom. Four-poster bed with intricate carvings, dusty curtains drawn tightly closed. A small figure tucked under a green quilt, breathing shallowly, white-blonde hair fanned out over the pillow and sticking to her cheeks. Empty eyes. Another figure then--Draco--lying beside her. His mother. His head on her knee, shoulders heaving. Crying. Her hand touching his cheek. Him grabbing her hand gently. Her beckoning him closer to speak in his ear. Draco shaking his head. Narcissa’s pursed lips urging him to hush.

The image jumped again, this time to the tip of his wand, pressed to his mother’s ear. A green bolt leaping from the end. Her body going slack. Draco dissolving into tears. The door bursting open--Draco’s father crumbling to his knees. Draco disapparating.

The images he allowed her to see then (and she had no doubt that he still kept more intimate moments to himself) flickered from image to image of dark alleys, running until his legs gave out, giving in to sleep behind a dumpster, fleeing before daylight, sneaking onto a ferry, stumbling into the first club he found, and then sporadic, erratic memories of endless women, drinks, and seedy stalls.

Then he saw her--she saw him see her outside of the Snake and Otter, watched him realize she wasn’t a figment of his imagination, watched him wait until she went inside and then check his wallet--realize that he was out of cash, and stumble off to find an ATM. Then, a fist from the darkness knocking him to the ground, and a thief sneering above him, a face that made her gasp. Suddenly, an image of her gasping as Draco’s lips touched hers… she couldn’t make herself look away because Draco’s memory was projecting such a feeling of relief. She saw herself look up at him like she had looked at her husband once. She didn’t look desperate, just… hopeful. Thankful. 

Draco closed the connection between them. Hermione sat back and opened her eyes. He was studying her, upside-down, as he was still laying shirtless on the island. She narrowed her eyes at him.

“You killed her all those years ago.”

“She was in excruciating pain. She begged me to end it.” He turned over so he was propped up on one arm. He didn’t want to talk about it, she could see it in his furrowed brow.

“They’re going to find out that you’re in London, Draco.” She breathed out hard. “You can’t do any magic while we’re there, none.”

He sat up and couldn’t help but smile. “I know. It’s not a matter of  _ if  _ I get arrested, but  _ when _ . It will happen someday. But you’re willing to go.”

“I am.” Hermione stood slowly, wincing. “But I saw someone I thought I knew in your memories… someone I purposefully lost contact with.”

“Who was it?”

She sighed. “It looked like Ron. Your mugger.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “What would Weasley be doing here?”

“I don’t know.” She pressed a hand to her temple. Draco jumped off the island and put his hand on her arm. She glared at him all of a sudden. “Why did you kiss me?”

He shrugged. “Because I wanted to.”

“You hate me.”

“I have never  _ hated _ you. I think at this point we can agree that we don’t know each other as well as we think,” he said, rubbing her arm. “Do you mind if I do this?”

“I think I should,” she murmured. “But I don’t.”

Draco held out his hand as if offering a handshake. Hermione raised a cynical eyebrow but grasped his hand. “Draco Malfoy. I live in Dublin. Not far from here. I smoke too much.”

“Hermione Granger-Wells. I live  _ here,” _ she said with a smirk. “And I have an absolutely obnoxious cast that itches and a leg that is horribly broken and if I don’t get pain medicine soon I will likely pass out.”

“Nice to meet you,” Draco said. His eyes crinkled and an idea seemed to occur to him. 

“Don’t even think about it,” she whispered, but her eyes were wide and her cheeks flushed. His head lowered slowly towards hers.

“Get out of my head,” he said. “Besides, you were the one who said that I hate you.”

Hermione threaded her fingers through his hair and gripped it. She looked him dead in the eye. “I think there’s a fine line between hate and… this,” she murmured. She kissed him  _ hard _ . Hard enough to convince herself that he  _ did _ want to--that she  _ didn’t _ know him very well at all, that he was a completely different person than she thought. She ran her tongue along the seam of his lips and he returned her vigor, wrapping his arms around her waist and lifting her off her feet. Her pain immediately eased and she couldn’t help but moan into his kiss. It was positively earth-shattering to feel his lips and his thoughts at once. This desperate passion between them felt long-awaited.

“I won’t ask you about him,” he said between kisses. She looked up at him with tearful eyes and held tighter to his bare shoulders.

“Maybe I’ll tell you someday,” she said. He pressed his forehead to hers.

“I feel drunk. I don’t know how we got here,” he admitted. Hermione looked down at her cast.

“Please--stop talking,” she said. She held up a finger to his lips. “Please let’s just talk a little less. I am tired. I need to take my medicine, and then I need to sleep, but I don’t know that we’re safe here.”

They formulated a plan: Draco would retrieve a small list of things from her apartment upstairs, they would expand one of her suitcases to hide the dead man, and then they would drive her car to his flat. From there, they would contact Luna and arrange for travel by Muggle means to London, where they would begin investigating the body of their attacker. The one things they didn’t count on was the man waiting across the street, under the street lamp, smoking as many cigarettes as it was going to take to wait them out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They can't figure out whether to fight or makeout--and they've hardly been in each others' company for 48 hours... Draco and Hermione have a long road ahead, and you can bet it will be just as mercurial.


	6. Doubt Truth to Be a Liar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their plans are foiled and Draco breaks.

They’d had to ditch Hermione’s car in Liverpool, after a tumultuous ferry ride across the Irish sea--Draco was tragically prone to motion sickness on boats and had spent most of the ride bent over the railing of the ferry, losing his lunch--and it would be a few hours before they arrived in London to meet up with Luna’s discreet contact. They took the latest train they could find with available private compartments.

He hadn’t anticipating falling asleep on the train, but it didn’t take long for Draco to pass out. 

Hermione considered him, slouched down across from her on the bench, head propped up in hand, and worn down. He had changed at his flat; he wore a dark blue jumper with the hood pulled up, denims, and well-worn sneakers. He looked like a teenager again, except for the days-old stubble lining his jaw. Lines still worried his forehead.

His wand was stowed away in his sock, but his right leg was propped up on his left and his hand braced over the hem of his pants… just in case. Hermione didn’t know how he could sleep at a time like this. She was exhausted, sure, but she couldn’t stop thinking about the man concealed within her suitcase. A part of her was worried he would come back to life. Or… that he would stay dead and she’d be discovered with his body. Sleeping just didn’t seem logical under the circumstances. Besides, her leg was aching.

They were to stay with a “trustworthy squib”, a woman who had apparently looked after Harry from afar when he lived with his aunt and uncle by the name of Mrs. Figg. From there, Luna would travel by floo and they would hand off the dead Animagus to her. They would lay low for a few days until Luna could figure out if there was an active threat to either Draco or Hermione. If so… Hermione would have to reemerge in the wizarding world and accept the protection of the Ministry. She hoped it wouldn’t come to that. After all this time, she wanted nothing to do with the papers that would no doubt revel in making her their next big scoop. It wouldn’t be long before they found out about her late husband or her home in Ireland, or what she had done to keep her parents safe during the Great War. Even if she did it to protect them.

Draco sighed heavily in his sleep. Hermione shook her head. He shouldn’t be there. He was going to get caught and then they’d shuffle him off to Azkaban. It was surprising that he hadn’t been sought out before, but maybe they just figured he was dead. What had he done to get the attention of this Animagus? How did they know that he was still alive?

The train had begun to slow down. A knock sounded on their compartment door. Draco didn’t stir. Hermione put her hand over her sleeve, where her wand was concealed.

“Yes?” she called. There was no answer, but someone knocked a second time. Hermione nudged Draco’s foot with her good leg. His eyes opened in little slits. The knocker knocked a third time and Hermione nodded towards the door. He sat up straight.

“Come in,” Draco said. 

A porter entered. “We’re approaching King’s Cross Station,” he said with a smile. “Do you need any help with your luggage?”

“We’ll manage,” Hermione said. She smiled at the porter, who tipped his hat and slid the door shut.

Draco rubbed his eyes and breathed out slowly. 

“Sorry,” Hermione said. “I guess I’m jumpy.”

“It’s all right,” Draco said. He held out a hand to her and she took it. He brushed his thumb over her knuckles, but he, too, felt shaken. “Do you want me to carry your suitcase?”

“Would you?” she asked. “I can’t wait for this stupid cast to come off. Am I selfish for wanting to check myself into St. Mungo’s and have done with it?”

Draco chuckled. “I don’t blame you. Come on.”

He retrieved their suitcases from the overhead rack and Hermione buttoned up her jacket. He handed down her crutches as well, making certain she had her balance before he opened the door to their compartment. Draco peeked out into the hallway. Seeing no one, he slid the door open and stepped aside for Hermione. She breathed out heavily.

“Perhaps we should’ve come in disguise,” she whispered.

“Relax,” he said. “It’s late. No one is bound to notice us, even with you galumphing along like that.” She shot him a look but he was smirking.

“It’s your fault,” she grumbled, hobbling down the slim hallway.

“So it is,” he replied gently.

They disembarked the train in relative silence, despite a surprisingly bustling platform; the evening’s travelers were made up largely of Muggles in dark traveling clothes, buttoned up to their eyeballs and lugging massive packs made for long getaways. Hermione imagined they were on their way to Paris, or some such place, which would warrant a large collection of belongings. Hermione had packed very little for their trip to London. Despite not knowing how long they were to be away, or where they would end up, she couldn’t bring herself to pack more than one change of clothes and a few essentials. It made her feel more optimistic that she would be back in The Snake and Otter before long.

Per Luna’s directions, they waited for a black taxi cab with a blue overhead light. Once inside, they were to instruct the driver to drive out of the city towards Surrey, where they would then catch another cab, and complete the journey to Little Whinging. Mrs. Figg was to meet them beneath the streetlight on Privet Drive. 

Hermione leaned her head against the door of the taxi and watched the street lights streak by. The driver had the radio tuned to an old vintage jazz station, which was currently wailing a melancholy tune. Draco looked at her. 

“What is it?” he murmured. She shook her head.

“Nothing at all,” she said. She looked away quickly and busied herself with staring out at the great nothing. 

Hermione was incredibly worried. She felt regret wash over her--the temptation to make the taxi driver turn around and take them back to the train station was almost too much to bear. They shouldn’t have come. Luna had warned that there would be consequences if they both came, and here they were, sitting in the back of what she assumed was a Ministry taxi, on their way to meet a Ministry contact and delivery a body. Together. Despite the entire wizarding world being aware of their split allegiances in the Great War. If the Daily Prophet caught wind of it… she would find no peace.

But then again, her life in Ireland was far from idyllic. She had Maura, but once the pub was sold, what would she have left? Of Dermott, of the life she had spent years building  _ away _ from the likes of magical folk. A few photographs, her wedding ring, and a collection of new wrinkles from worrying so much. 

And what the hell was Draco Malfoy doing in her life again?

He had once caused her abject misery. His family had targeted her and her friends, he had personally witnessed her being tortured at the hands of Bellatrix Lestrange; he was the last person that she should be involved with in  _ any way _ . She sighed softly. She supposed that the line between hate and… something in the guise of affection was very slim. It was true that his values had changed, though he was still a pompous git at times. He was very handsome, even if the years on the run had stolen the youthful glow from his skin. He cared deeply… but about what, she could not be sure. She felt like now wasn’t the time to try to dig for his angle. They should’ve squared up  _ before _ they reentered the wizarding world. Now, she couldn’t be sure what he wanted from her. Except that his gaze always seemed to linger on her lips, and his hands kept seeking hers. There was a… strange symmetry to their lives. Not just with this particular case, but in what they both seemed to be asking of the world. To be left alone--to find peace that neither had been able to find in their youth. To atone for what they had done to their parents. To feel affection from something or someone familiar. Hermione wondered if she needed him to… forgive her, perhaps. She wasn’t sure for what, but it was the only reason she could think of why she clung to the idea of them seeing this through. She sought a pardon that might never come. She sought a simple explanation, where there was a lifetime of complications. Still, she sought him.

Draco laid his hand over her arm. She hadn’t realized she was shaking, but the touch stilled her. She didn’t want to look up at him, so she intertwined her fingers with his and studied his hand. Long, slender fingers. Soft skin.

“We’re a few minutes from Surrey,” the taxi driver said gruffly. 

“Thank you,” Draco said. He released Hermione’s hand in order to retrieve his wallet from inside his jacket. 

“Fare’s been paid,” the driver said. Draco and Hermione exchanged a look. Hermione supposed they should have expected that, what with Luna arranging their transportation. She was thorough, and wouldn’t have left out any small detail. 

The taxi cab pulled up at a bus stop and idled. “Here we are,” the driver said. Draco tipped the man a few quid. A second taxi with a blue light pulled up behind them and flashed its lights once. “That’s your ride,” the man said. Draco hopped out and ran around to Hermione’s side to help her out of the cab. He bore her weight so she could clear her cast, and then helped her onto her crutches. Then, he retrieved their luggage from the boot and waved in thanks to their first driver. It was difficult to see their second driver beyond the bright headlights, but Draco walked in front of Hermione and threw their bags into the boot of the new cab. He closed the boot and the driver honked.

Suddenly, both cabs pulled away and sped off into the night. Draco ran into the street and threw his hands up.

“There goes our last hope,” Hermione said, tearfully. Draco rubbed his face is frustration. He picked up a rock and threw it as far as he could towards the dim brake lights in the distance.

“I knew it was too good to be true,” he spat. He sat on the curb and put his head in his hands. 

Hermione looked up and tried to blink away the tears that were threatening to fall. The stars were visible for once--the usually dull English skies were crystal clear and spattered with starlight. 

“What do we do?” she asked the stars.

“Don’t know,” Draco said angrily. 

“Where would we have asylum now?” Hermione wondered. 

Draco sighed. “This is all my fault.” He looked up at her. “I brought this on you, all of it. If I had just left you alone that night, just went back to my flat--”

“Then you’d be dead,” Hermione said. Draco shrugged and looked away again.

“I’ve had this coming,” he said softly. “Since we were in school together. Merlin--I should’ve listened to Snape all those years ago!” He stood and laughed, but the sound was strangled and desperate. “He told me that I would ruin myself if I wasn’t careful. He knew that I was going to cause my own downfall--that’s why he killed Dumbledore. To save me from what that sort of act could do to a man… but I didn’t learn anything. My mother--Gods… I’m so sorry, Hermione. I’m sorry.” He stepped backwards, carding a hand through his hair.

Hermione cried silently, watching him unravel. She gestured for him to come to her, but he shook his head and crossed his arms. She dropped her crutches and held out her arms. Draco leapt forward in surprise to catch her, but she just grasped his shoulders tightly.

“What do you need from me?” she whispered. He wiped an errant tear from her cheek and shook his head. He didn’t know. She wrapped her arms around his neck. Draco buried his face in her shoulder and lifted her off the ground.

“I am certain that your mother would not have asked you to take away her pain if she thought you were a lost cause,” she whispered. Draco curled his fingers into her jacket.

“What must you think of me,” he said. 

Hermione breathed out slowly. “I admit, I’m a bit… mystified. How we got here.”

“We were abandoned by our contact, remember?”

“You know what I mean,” Hermione said. Draco pulled back and looked down at her. “You were hurting. When we were children. You said things that felt worse than Unforgivable at the time, but you weren’t yourself. At least, I don’t believe that was the real you.” She smoothed her hands down his chest. “Desperation makes fools of us all.”

“You make me feel like an idiot,” he blushed.

“You are a bit of an idiot,” she laughed. “But then, I’ve always known that. Ever since Hogwarts.”

Draco got a funny look on his face. “I have a terrible idea, but it might work.”

“Anything is better than sleeping out here all night,” Hermione said.

“Where is the one place with unlimited resources, that you  _ know _ would be hospitable to the both of us?”

Hermione furrowed her brow. There was only one place she could think of where they had any chance of seeking asylum. 

Hogwarts.


	7. I'll Make a Heaven of Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They come up with a plan, and finally consummate their mutual... desire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The smut! The Angst! It's all here!

They traveled to Hogsmeade by Side-Along; they couldn’t just barge into Hogwarts unannounced, and Hermione was craving a stiff drink--not to mention a comfy bed. Draco was fairly concerned about them being spotted in Hogsmeade, what with the little town being a favorite weekend getaway of students and Ministry officials alike. He thought it best to perform a simple glamour charm on them both. They decided against sending an owl to Luna to inform her of their betrayal; they couldn’t be sure whether or not Luna was in on the ruse, but she surely knew by now that they hadn’t made it to Mrs. Figg’s. Hermione hoped to relay a message once they were safe at Hogwarts. 

They procured a room at the Three Broomsticks for the night from a sweet young witch, a recent graduate from Hogwarts. Once Hermione was settled with her feet up on a cushy ottoman, Draco ventured down to the bar alone. 

He tried to remind himself to  _ act natural _ . Hardly any wizard in the place, anyway, and those left were deep in their cups. Madam Rosmerta wasn’t there, as far as he could tell, though the young woman who had checked them in hadn’t indicated either way whether the owner was still around these days. The only sign that the bar itself was still open at all was a smoldering cigarette, which was balanced at the end of a long cigarette holder, which was in turn resting on an ash tray. 

The young woman was nowhere to be found, and Draco was desperate for a drink. Just being back in Hogsmeade was enough to curdle his blood. He felt like a fool for even stepping foot in the Three Broomsticks, but it had been Hermione’s idea, and she wasn’t keen on the idea of walking any further with her leg in such a state. 

Draco leaned against the bar and spied a little bell, which hung beneath a sign that read: RING OR STAY PARCHED. He chuckled and rang it. From the back room, a thump sounded. Then, the lady herself, the owner-operator Madam Rosmerta emerged. 

“What can I get you?” she said, leaning against the doorway.

Draco felt his stomach drop into his feet. Here, he had hoped to avoid seeing her at all costs, and then she emerged. He prayed that his glamour was still working.

“Well?” she tapped the toe of her boot.

Draco cleared his throat. “Can I just get a double firewhiskey and a butterbeer?” 

“If you like,” Rosmerta said. She snapped her fingers and the cigarette holder flew to her hand. She balanced it between her lips. “What’s the name?”

“Wells,” he managed. Hermione Granger-Wells and a hanger-on whose name was hardly worth mentioning. They had checked in under Hermione’s legal surname just to be safe. That particular veil felt tenuous and not as safe as, say, disappearing back to Ireland or America, or the Moon. Anywhere but this particular pub.

“Ah, the couple in number seven. So,” she said, reaching for two glasses, “are you here for business or pleasure? My girl said she’s got you and your lady situated.”

“A, uh, change of scenery,” he said. Rosmerta nodded.

“How long’ve you been with your wife?” They hadn’t elaborated on any sort of relationship to the young woman, she must’ve just assumed... Not that there was any sort of relationship on which to be expounded. Was there? No. They were childhood acquaintances who were working together  _ not to die. _ So, how long had they been childhood acquaintances?

“Seventeen years,” he said. She hummed in admiration, or some similar emotion. Draco studied her. She was still as beautiful as ever, still an institution in that ancient bar. He had heard that she had spent a long stint in St. Mungo’s after he… well, he hadn’t killed her, and for some reason that reassured him. Because what he  _ had _ done to her, in Voldemort’s name, had weighed in his dreams long after the war ended. 

He was shaken out of his memory by Rosmerta setting the drinks in front of him. She looked right at him but he realized that her eyes were clouded-over by cataracts. She was blind. She obviously knew her way around her bar, eyesight be damned, but still--she didn’t know him from Adam.

“I’ll put it on your tab, shall I?” Rosmerta asked, taking a long drag from her cigarette.

“Ah--yes. Thanks,” Draco said. He hastily grabbed the glasses and ascended the stairs without a second glance back at her. 

He paused outside the door to the room he was sharing with Hermione for the evening. He took a deep sip of his firewhiskey--and then sputtered as it burned his throat. Ugh… he winced, tucked the firewhiskey glass into the crook of his arm, and opened the door. Hermione sat in the cushy chair still, with her good leg pulled up to her chest, and her arms wrapped around it. She looked concerned, but she perked up as soon as she saw him… and then she realized he looked quite pale.

“What’s wrong?” she asked as he handed her the butterbeer. Draco downed the rest of his firewhiskey, set the glass on the side table, and flopped backwards onto the bed. “Did you see someone?”

“Rosmerta,” he murmured. “She didn’t recognize me.”

“But then she wouldn’t; she was hurt in the fighting at Hogwarts,” Hermione said, taking a sip of her beer. “Took a curse straight to the face, lost her sight. She was in St. Mungo’s for a while.”

Draco turned his head to look at her. “You don’t know, do you.”

“Know what?” Hermione frowned.

“I was supposed to pass a cursed necklace to Dumbledore, but I wasn’t supposed to do it on school grounds,” Draco sighed. “Snape said that he was close to Madam Rosmerta, so I was given the task of…” He stopped. 

“You cast the Imperius Curse on her to pass the necklace off,” Hermione said softly. 

Draco pressed the palms of his hands to his eyes. “What am I thinking?” He spoke so softly, Hermione could barely hear him. “I’ll go. I’ll leave, I’ll disappear.”

Hermione put down her butterbeer and swung her legs off the ottoman. She hobbled over to the bed and grabbed his arm. “Stop, Draco,” she said. He stilled, but his eyes remained covered.

“I don’t have any right--”

“To what? To live?” Hermione asked, sitting next to him on the bed. “You spent a decade punishing yourself--there’s no reason to start again, now.”

“Oh for Salazar’s sake, please hush,” he said, grasping her hand.

“What do you want, then?” Hermione asked. “Do you want to go back down there and beg for her forgiveness? While you’re at it, do you want to beg  _ my _ forgiveness?”

“Please stop talking.”

“We are never going to figure out who is after us if you have to stop and atone to every single person you’ve ever wronged,” Hermione said. “I understand that you’re a tad prolific in that department, but you--”

Draco sat up and smashed his lips against hers. Hermione made a sound of protest but then he pulled back and leveled his eyes with hers. “Please. Shut up. I get your point, you’ve made it clear.” His gaze flicked back down to her lips and he lowered his mouth to hers slowly this time, pressing her onto her back, and grasping her hip. Hermione cupped his cheek. 

“You can’t--mm! Just kiss...me...every t-time you--” Draco’s tongue danced against Hermione’s bottom lip and she sighed against his mouth, allowing him to deepen the kiss. It made her toes curl. Draco took a breath to nuzzle beneath her ear, pressing his lips to her neck and laving his attention there.

“If I had known that you were such a good kisser, I would’ve dragged you into a broom closet years ago,” he whispered against her collarbone. Hermione arched into his touch.

“Mmmm… except for the pesky matter of my parentage,” she countered, threading her fingers through his silvery hair.

“Didn’t stop me from imagining you in the showers,” he replied, grinning against her skin. He pressed a gentle kiss to her sternum and rested his chin there to look up at her with a silent question. She raised an eyebrow at him.

“You didn’t!” Hermione gasped. Draco’s fingers found their way to the hem of her shirt. 

“I did. I have wondered what you looked like naked since we were teenagers.” He delighted in the blush that spread across her cheeks just then and returned to her lips to show her.

“Draco,” she breathed as his fingers worked at the waistband of her trousers. 

“Hmm?”

“My cast…” she inclined her head back up to catch his lips again.

“Is that your only objection?” Draco whispered.

“We’re both adults. I think it’s quite obvious that we’ve got a mutual attraction,” Hermione said. She smiled slowly. “I just… don’t want you to do this because you think it’s… some sort of… amends. But because you want to, and because I want you to.”

Draco grabbed her hand and intertwined their fingers. “I am aching for you,” he said.

“Then proceed,” Hermione said, gesturing down her body. Draco couldn’t help but chuckle. He sat up and put his arms around her, one beneath her knees, and one behind her back, and moved her so that she was laying with her head on the pillows. He removed his shoes and trousers quickly, and then pulled his hooded jumper off next, leaving his hair a mussed mess. Hermione watched him through heavy-lidded eyes. Draco returned to her, snaking up her body and grasping the hem of her shirt. He pulled it up and over her head. 

“I don’t care if you rip them, just get my trousers  _ off _ ,” Hermione said as Draco tried to decide how to best go about removing her trousers over her cast. It had been trouble enough getting them  _ on _ (he had heard the expletives when she had dressed herself). 

“I’ve got it.” Draco hopped off the bed and reached into his trousers for his wand. He touched the tip to the seams and silently cast an unstitching spell. The one other time he had seen it used was to remove stitches from a deep wound. This was a far more enjoyable outcome, as the fabric simply fell away and revealed Granger’s exemplary stems. Well, the one that wasn’t encased in plaster, anyhow. Draco whistled. Hermione clasped her hands over her face in embarrassment.

“Gods, how do you even find my sexy in this awful thing!” Hermione groaned. Draco chuckled.

“For all of my snobbery, Granger, I have absolutely zero complaints. You are a goddess.” He knelt beside her and kissed her once more, this time slowly, dragging on her lips in desperate, languorous kisses.

Hermione’s own hands tugged at his briefs, scootching them little by little downwards. Draco smiled against her mouth and removed the offending article. Then, he returned the favor. First, he found the front clasp on her bra and delighted in the little snap as it gave way. She peeled it off and Draco could’ve drooled. She had exquisite breasts. He leaned down and kissed the upper curve of her left breast, just above her heart, and lingered there, blowing on her nipple and kissing it when it hardened. Then, he found her right breast with his other hand. Gently, he trailed a finger from sternum to belly button and downward, to her small little bikini cut panties. 

He slipped his hand beneath the band. Hermione bit her lip and tilted her hips up to meet his fingers. Draco’s lips mimicked the movement of his touch against her; as his fingers crept towards her slit, his lips sought her mouth. She moaned as he found her core. Draco circled her clit, before finding her wetness and pressing one finger slowly into her center. 

“Oh…” she breathed against his lips. “How long has it been? For you?” she asked, as he added a second finger to his deep ministrations.

Draco growled against her neck and nipped a little love bite there. “So long. None like you, no. None like you.”

He didn’t give her a chance to ask what he meant; Draco pulled his fingers out of her and stuck them into his mouth. Then, he grasped her good leg and hooked her knee over his arm. “I don’t know if I can be gentle,” he warned through ragged breaths.

“Don’t be,” she said, reaching down to grasp him. Draco bucked into her hand. She pumped him slowly but there was no mistaking that he was already ready for her. He felt like he might explode if he didn’t have her soon. She guided him to her center. Draco cupped her cheek. He snapped his hips forward and buried himself inside her so deep that he saw stars. He pulled back and thrust again, hard, needy--craving every moment to be closer to her, to pull more ragged moans out of her. He hoped there was a silencing charm on the room, but he really didn’t care if someone heard them because the feel of her was incredible.

“Oh Gods,” he breathed as she tightened her inner muscles around him. “I need you.”

“You have me,” she said, rolling her hips to meet his insistent thrusts. “Harder, Draco!”

At the sound of his name on her lips, Draco doubled his pace, snapping his hips so their flesh slapped together. Hermione’s back curved upward in pleasure. He drove into her like he would never get another chance to have her. He only wanted her. He wanted her to come, he wanted her to feel beautiful--sexy--to feel wanted… to feel him so deep inside her that she would memorize the way their joining felt. 

Hermione gasped as her orgasm hit; it rippled through her inner muscles and pulled him just that much closer to ecstasy. She dug her fingernails into his hips and the tiny prick of pain triggered his orgasm. Draco shouted his release and fell forward, bracing his hands on either side of her, panting. Hermione brushed his hair off his face. She sought his lips again. Draco didn’t dare pull out of her yet, not with her wrapped up in the aftershock. He slid his arms beneath her and held her against him. She did the same; they lay, arms entangled, still joined, smiling into a mutually satisfied kiss.

“Draco Malfoy,” she hummed. “If I had known you were so good at that, I would’ve dragged you into a broom closet ages ago.” He chuckled. 

“I hope I didn’t hurt you.” She shook her head. “How’s the leg?”

Hermione shrugged. “What leg? What in the world is even remotely broken right now? I’ve never been better.”

Draco stroked her cheek. “Couldn’t have done that at Mrs. Figg’s house,” he said. Hermione giggled.

“You’ve managed to find the silver lining,” she said. Draco disentangled himself from her after a kiss to her forehead. When he unjoined them, he let out an involuntary groan of pleasure, and shivered.

“Merlin’s beard,” he murmured. 

Hermione spelled them both clean, and then they got beneath the covers of the plush bed. She stared at the ceiling for a while, relaxed, but a small furrow crowning her brow. Draco pressed his forehead to her shoulder.

“I’m so sorry,” Hermione whispered. “For what they put you through.”

“I don’t need your pity,” he replied gently. Hermione looked down at him.

“Still. I’m still sorry.” She kissed his forehead. Draco curled his arm over her bare waist and sidled up against her. 

“About my little… tantrum. Earlier…”

“You needn’t apologize.”

“No,” he urged. “I want to tell you. I spent my entire childhood amongst… deeply disturbed witches and wizards. And once it was over, I was alone.. And it was… Hermione, what I’m trying to say is… I don’t know how to--to be, uh. What am I trying to say?”

“A regular person?” she giggled. He narrowed his eyes.

“I do not know how to do… this.” He gestured between them. 

“You’ve surely had a woman sleep over,” she said. 

Draco shook his head. “No, I haven’t. I’ve slept with my share of women, but none whom I would… ever wish to see again in the morning. And I’m just… glad that you were there...in your pub... to stop me from getting killed.”

“...so that you could eventually see me naked?” Hermione was covering her mouth to keep from dissolving into giggles. Draco flopped onto his back and huffed.

“I’m trying to be bloody vulnerable, and you’re taking a piss!”

Hermione reached down and grabbed his hand. “You’re an idiot,” she said sweetly. 

“I’m bloody terrified,” he finally said. He turned back toward her and held their clasped hands up between them. 

“Whatever happens tomorrow, we have  _ this _ ,” Hermione said. “Don’t worry about it so much. We’ve got bigger problems. Madam Rosmerta is not one of them.”

Draco nodded once, glad to have that subject over and settled. He sighed. The need to sleep came quickly, but one last thought occurred to him before Draco passed out.

“If anyone else asks, Hermione, we’ve been married for 17 years,” he whispered into her shoulder.

“Oh,” she said, though it came out somewhat pained. He looked up at her with worry, but she smiled sadly. “It’s nothing. Seventeen years it is. Good to have our story straight.” She turned away from him slightly and shut her eyes. Draco’s stomach lurched. Someday, when they weren’t naked and on the run, he hoped she would tell him about the real Mr. Wells, and why she looked so sad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My lovely beta reminded me that Draco Imperius'ed Rosmerta in the plot to kill Dumbledore... which I had entirely and completely forgotten. So. That's what he's referring to, in case I wasn't blatant enough. Also, yes... my chapter titles are all taken from Shakespeare quotes. 
> 
> Ps. I realize that they're quite mercurial at this point, but remember---they're on the run, they don't know who's after them, and the one plan they had was entirely foiled. They're trying to make sense of things. And they just kinda like these new, older versions of each other. LMK what you think! ;)


	8. A Lean and Hungry Look

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione is forced to travel without Draco, and the threat doubles.

Draco stole through the passage beneath the Three Broomsticks at a breakneck pace. It’s safer this way, he repeated to himself, over and over, all the while remembering the way Hermione’s hair spilled from her pillow onto his, and the way her shoulders hunched up to her ears to keep the quilt from slipping down. If he could just get there first, then come back for her with a Hogwarts carriage or something so she didn’t have to walk one more step on that infernal cast. When they finally got her to Hogwarts, he was going to have a word with Madam Pomfrey about fixing up Hermione’s leg so she didn’t have to deal with it anymore. His heart lurched at the thought of her waking up to find him gone. He stopped.

For the first time in his entire life, Draco desperately  _ wanted _ to see someone else happy. He wanted to insure it. He wanted to be the reason for it.

Which was a conflicting feeling, because having to think about someone else’s well-being was taxing in a way he had never needed to consider. Usually, he wasn’t sober enough to remember anyone else. It had been ages since he’d spent more than a few days in the company of someone he desired; he had  _ never _ felt the choking compulsion to protect any of those ladies, witches or otherwise. What in Merlin’s name had she done to him?

Why did he yearn to save her?

Draco shook his head. He did not deserve her. Not in the slightest. He didn’t deserve the way her fingers curled into his hair when he kissed her, needy and insistent. 

No woman had ever seen his flat in Dublin before; he made a point of always going over to  _ hers _ , whoever she ways, the flavor of the night. He wasn’t sure that they would miss him at his usual haunts. It then occurred to him, standing in the deep and dank passage between the Three Broomsticks and Hogwarts, that he hadn’t mentioned his departure to the fellas at the Bardic Arms, the pub at which he tended bar most nights. Chances were good that they wouldn’t notice for at least a week; his attendance was so varied and changeable that at this point, they’d like assume he was never coming back. Not that they would care. He was on his fourth flat in five years and just couldn’t be bothered with the people who enabled his haphazard existence.

He hadn’t mentioned anything about his life in Ireland to Hermione, either. Somehow, those ten years in Dublin felt meaningless now. Even on the run, he did feel more at home in the wizarding world than he had ever felt in Ireland, and that was terrifying. He didn’t want to be there; he knew what magic brought out in him, what dark impulses he would forever be tempted to appease. How easy it was to fall back into the mindset that the entire world was out to get him. Well, he wasn’t entirely wrong; someone  _ was _ after him, or Hermione, but this time he wasn’t inhibited by underage magic restrictions or the rules of his parents. With Hermione on his side, he felt certain they would be all right. If only they could find asylum, first. And not just protection, but peace of mind. A place to decompress. I place to look each other in the face and figure out why they couldn’t stop touching.

Draco clucked his tongue at the thought of Hermione at Malfoy Manor in those old and desperate days, laying on the rug with his aunt carving a meaningless slur into her arm. He had caught a few glimpses of her old scar, but like his dark mark, it had faded enough to look like a youthful mistake. It almost felt like it, too. Someday, maybe he’d try to have his mark removed. For now, he felt like he deserved to bear it. Hermione on the other hand deserved to have the marred skin smoothed by the touch of his lips.

How long before he broke and lashed out--at her, or someone else? How long before she remembered who had tormented her--before those what pursued them caught up and made good on their threats. Draco could only assume that the first man hadn’t been the last. The fact that the man’s body had been stolen from them did not bode well; whomever had been driving that second cab was part of this scheme.

As he reached the rickety staircase at the end of the passage, Draco willed Hermione to sleep well into the morning, and to forgive him for leaving her there alone once she awoke… and to push away all thoughts of the people they were back at school.

*

Hermione awoke to the tip of a wand in her face. She breathed out evenly; the curtains were drawn in the room so she couldn’t quite make out the face of her threat, though daylight was attempting to peek through the thick fabric.

“Where is he?” a gruff male voice whispered.

“Where is who?” she asked blearily. Her hand sought the bed beside her discreetly, but sure enough, Draco was gone.

“Malfoy, the younger,” the man said. She could just make out a faint tattoo beneath his eye, the same one as the man whom Draco had killed. He, too, wore a deep hood, which mostly obscured his brow and hair. This man, unlike their first attacker, was well-muscled and massive. He looked like he could snap her in half. “I know that he checked in with you,” the man said, “so where is he now?”

“You truly believe that I would check in with a wanted man?” Hermione scoffed. “Please. I’m tired, and you’re going to make me late for my appointment--”

“Draco Malfoy  _ is in Hogsmeade _ ! We scryed for him--he’s  _ here _ . With you, witch,” the man spat. “So? Where is he, then?”

“Dead,” she breathed. “I hope.”

The man pressed his wand to her throat. “Do not lie to me,  _ praecantrix _ .” 

Hermione closed her fingers around the hand at her throat. The infinitesimal space between her skin and his grew warm.  _ Incendio _ , she thought. The man jumped back as his sleeve caught fire--but no matter how he waved his arm, the green flame spread up to his shoulder. Hermione held up her wand.

“As far as you’re concerned, he’s  _ dead _ . He’s gone--he is no more. You have never heard of  _ Draco Malfoy _ .  _ Lamia! _ ” Grey smoke burst from the end of Hermione’s wand and curled around the man’s head. Though he waved his hands to dispel the smoke, it curled between his fingers, and then, at the flick of Hermione’s wand, infiltrated every orifice in the man’s head. His head snapped back. Hermione’s heart lurched into her throat, but she held up her wand. “You will not seek him. You will not perceive him even were he to appear through that door,” she growled. “ He is a leaf on the wind and you are tired.” The man collapsed, unconscious. Hermione sat back against the headboard.  _ Draco _ , she thought.  _ Where are you? _

There was no sign of him at all. He hadn’t left a note on a table, all of his clothes were gone… aside from the unconscious man on the floor, there was no sign that anyone else had ever been in that room with her. Had he left to protect her if they were found out? It wasn’t likely that he had just changed his mind and left, but why would he leave without telling her?

Hermione grabbed the pillow Draco had been sleeping on and held it over her face. She screamed into it. What did he expect her to do? Just sit there twiddling her thumbs until he returned? Bollocks. 

She swung her good leg over the side of the bed and pulled her cast with it. Whatever he was planning, he was a Class A idiot for not telling her. Well, it didn’t matter. She was going to get herself to Hogwarts, and to safety, because there was no point in trying to look for him--especially considering that Draco was still being tracked. Hermione glanced down at the unconscious man on the floor. Same strange tattoo beneath his eye, same bizarre cloak. Still after Draco, for reasons she didn’t know… but now she was certain that he was the target, not her.

What he had done was difficult--heartbreaking for him, she knew it--but was it really the reason that he was the focus of a cult attack? Could he be hiding something more? 

Draco was a fool. A changed man in many ways, most certainly, but still a moron. But he didn’t seem to be a danger to  _ her _ anymore. A pang of sadness shot through her. She had thought... she had deluded herself into believing someone could care about her again. But she must have been desperate, because it had only taken three days for her to trust a guy who had made her childhood miserable--and only three days to sleep with him.  _ Classy, Hermione, _ she thought. She still wore her wedding ring. She had been seeing a therapist back in Dublin for the last year… she could hear Doctor Jones now:  _ Well, you were probably seeking a connection and it stands to reason you would reach for the familiar, even if that familiar person was previously verbally abusive to you. Even if that person was a child at the time, and a victim of abuse themselves. Which doesn’t excuse anything, but… _ She shook her head. She wanted to punch him again. She wanted him to walk back into that room.

She should’ve taken him seriously when he had said he was going to disappear.

Hermione sought out her trousers, which had been scattered in pieces beside the bed by Draco’s rather clever spell. He had literally charmed her out of her trousers. She sighed. “ _ Reparo! _ ” she said, pointing her wand first at the pieces on the floor, and then at her legs. The fabric knitted itself back together over her lower half, and again with the right leg rolled above her cast. She renewed the charm Draco had cast to disguise them, did one last sweep of the room to make certain she hadn’t left anything behind, grabbed her crutches, and departed the room. The unconscious man would eventually awaken with no knowledge of how he had arrived there. Though he would still remember his mission to kill Draco, he would never again be able to perceive Draco Malfoy, even if he stood before him. It was very old magic, which could get Hermione dragged in front of the Wizengamot if she were caught casting it. It was the very spell that had put her on a Ministry watch list ten years ago, though it hadn’t been the deepest or most subversive magic she had cast in her life. 

_ That _ magic had been cast nearly a year ago. Dermott couldn’t be saved--the cancer was beyond a magical cure--but that hadn’t stopped her from trying. What he had become after...

The stairs were murder. When she reached the bottom floor, Hermione flagged down the young woman who was running the bar. 

“How can I help you, Mrs. Wells?” she asked cheerfully.

“I need to get to Hogwarts,” Hermione said, breathlessly. It was lucky she hadn’t pitched herself down the uneven staircase.

“Carson could take you in our cart, if you like?” the woman suggested. “He will be doing a run up to the castle this morning with a delivery anyhow.”

“That would be fine,” Hermione agreed. “In the meantime, a confused man wandered into my room this morning; could you have someone check on him? He fainted before I could ask him what he was looking for.” Hermione shrugged and the woman clicked her tongue.

“Probably deep in his cups,” she chuckled. “I’ll get him cleaned up. Meanwhile, let’s get you on your way. Will your husband be joining you?”

“He had an appointment at Hogwarts early this morning,” Hermione said. “I had hoped he’d be back by now, but in any case, I’ll be meeting him there.” The young woman lead Hermione out front and around the corner to the stables. Hermione tried not to lean so heavily on her crutches; they were bruising her beneath her arms but her leg was throbbing so deeply that she couldn’t hardly bear it. It didn’t help that the floor of the Three Broomsticks was laid with uneven stone. With her shoulder bag slung across her body, slapping against her good leg as she galumphed along, Hermione felt she would be unable to keep her feet much longer.

“Did... my husband stop and have breakfast this morning, by chance?” Hermione asked, wincing as her crutch caught on a rock out front of the stables.

The girl shook her head. “If he did, he must’ve been up before I took over. Here we are!” She gestured to an old man, who was hitching the horse to the cart. “Carson, would you take Mrs. Wells along with you when you make the school delivery? She needs to get up to the castle.”

“What’s she willing to pay?” the old man grumbled. Hermione cast a glance at the young woman. She fished in her bag. 

“I’ve got three Galleons that are yours,” she said. “That’s all I’ve got, I’m afraid.” And  then a terrible thought occurred to her. She turned to look at the young woman. “I completely forgot about paying our bill!”

“Not to worry; your husband took care of it last night.” At least he hadn’t abandoned her  _ and _ left her the bill.

“Three Galleons?” Carson scoffed. “Well, that’ll have to do.” He gestured with his head for Hermione to get onto the cart.  _ Yes, I’ll just jump right on up, _ she thought.

With the woman’s help (whose name Hermione finally remembered to ask--Ellen Wood, youngest sister of Oliver Wood), and no thanks to Carter, Hermione climbed precariously into the front bench of the rustic cart, with her crutches laid in the bed behind her. Ellen tucked a blanket over Hermione’s legs to keep her warm, but Hermione silently thanked her thoughtfulness. If she was seen with the cast, even when charmed with the glamor of an older woman, she could still be recognized by one of the cultists.

Even at mid-morning, Hogsmeade was fairly bustling. As the cart rambled through the streets, Hermione hunched down into the bench. It wouldn’t be a particularly long drive up to the castle if there hadn’t been so many people, but the cart had to hug the buildings as it passed food carts and stalls for the Sunday Morning market. Finally, the cart reached the edge of the little village and they needed only to climb the hill up to Hogwarts. Hermione looked up at Carson, whose face was somewhat shadowed by the brim of his deerstalker cap. He glanced at her.

“Your husband left you, eh?” he grumbled. Hermione’s brow furrowed.

“We’re meeting up at the school,” Hermione replied.

“Not so gentlemanly of him to leave his companion alone.”

She turned. “He had good reason,” she said.  _ I hope _ . 

“If you think that, you don’t know ‘im very well.” 

Hermione discreetly pulled her wand from her sleeve and pointed it at his side. “And you do?” she murmured.

“I just know men, madame,” he said. “And from the sound of it, your husband’s just like the rest of them.”

It made Hermione think. No, her real husband hadn’t been like the rest of them. Dermott had been quiet, kind… he had always considered her first. He had never kept anything from her. They had shared in every decision and only disagreed on one major point: Hermione had wanted him to undergo the invasive surgery that his doctor had recommended to remove the tumors. It wasn’t guaranteed to work; in fact, the chance was so small as to be almost improbable, but it might have meant weeks more time. But Dermott had disagreed. By then, he was too weak to sit up on his own, and no longer had any feeling in his limbs. He barely recognized her in the end. He was in pain, and he wanted it to stop.

Draco, on the other hand, her fake husband and the man who had abandoned her… well, Hermione couldn’t say if he was a typical man in the way Carson insinuated. The line was very thin between longing for him and wanting to throttle him. She hoped he had headed for Hogwarts and that he had a good explanation.

“He’s a good man,” she said, finally. “Better than many might give him credit for, but I see it.”

Carson guffawed. “I very much doubt that; he is purist after all.”

Hermione poked her wand into his side. “Whatever you’ve got planned, I’d rethink it,” she said evenly.

“You don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into, Miss Granger,” he said. Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Your charm was elementary and crude. And in your condition…” He tisked. 

“Who do you work for?” She flicked her wand up to his face and pushed up the brim of his cap. He, too, bore a mark beneath his eye, but it had faded to a faint purple. 

“ _ We, _ ” he corrected, “work for  _ him _ . On his behalf. For his own good. For his safety, you see.”

“I don’t believe you,” she said.

“Believe what you like. He won’t be able to hide much longer. When we find him again, we’ll make certain he’s back in safe hands.” Carson’s adam’s apple lept as Hermione pressed her wand into his cheek.

“You don’t know where he is, then,” she surmised. “You’ve been scrying for him, but you can’t find him anymore.” Which meant he was in a place with wards. He must be at Hogwarts after all.

“Ah, but we will have him before long, with you to bait him.” Carson shoved her hard and the cart lurched to one side. Hermione nearly lost her wand over the side. He held onto the reins with one hand and reached into his pocket for his wand. Before he could pull it out, Hermione held up her own. 

_ “Petrificus totalus! _ ” she exclaimed. Carson went rigid. Hermione wrenched the reins out of his hand and flipped them to encourage the horse to go faster. She raced for the school at the top of the hill, uncaring who might see her or the petrified man in the cart beside her, just desperate to reach the castle.

The cart buckled under the front left wheel as the axle snapped. The horse screamed and the cart upended, dumping the contents of the bed and sending Hermione flying. She hit her head on impact.


	9. There Are No Comets Seen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione finds out what happened to Draco.

Her hand was numb; it felt as though it was being crushed in a vice. Hermione’s eyes fluttered open. Through bleary eyes, she could make out the silhouette of a person hunched over in the chair beside her, arm extended up to the bed. She realized they were sleeping, with a death grip on her hand. 

Draco. It was the man who had all but abandoned her in Hogsmeade--and the idiot was sleeping peacefully. She blinked away the sleepiness and took in the room around her.

The room was dark but for a few smoldering candles on the night stand beside her; the soft glow cast long shadows onto the ceiling, which was held up by exquisite beams, which met in peaks like perfect stone merengues. Hogwarts. She was in the hospital wing. She took inventory of her aches and pains. To her surprise, she could move her right leg; it was no longer inhibited by the large cast. It was sore, but not excruciating. Her head, on the other hand, was throbbing. She didn’t remember anything after cracking it on the ground. Her arm was also sore, but not broken. Her ribs ached as she attempted to breathe deeply. But she was safe, and it was no thanks to the big lug snoring by her side.

She tried to pry her hand from his grip. He held fast, even in the depths of sleep.

“Malfoy!” she growled. She wasn’t sure how many other patients were sleeping there; her vision was obscured by a partition on either side of the bed, but at least there was nobody in the bed directly across from hers. Draco stirred slightly, lifting his head and squinting at her. It took him a moment to register that her eyes were open.

Then he leapt up and cupped her cheeks.

“You’re all right,” he breathed. She pushed him off.

“No thanks to you,” she said with a quiet snarl. He took a step back in shame. “I was attacked. Twice. You left me vulnerable, and worse--you didn’t tell me where you were going!”

“I didn’t want you to have to walk--”

“So leaving me alone was your best solution? What, was I too slow for you?” Hermione shook her head. “You’re asking me to trust you, to be intimate with you, but you’re willing to gamble on my safety?”

“I didn’t think they’d find us before I had a chance to bring a carriage back for you, that’s all,” he said softly. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. Hermione glared at him.

“I woke up to a wand in my face!” she exclaimed. Draco gestured for her to hush. “They’ve been scrying for you. They knew we were in Hogsmeade the second we arrived. Merlin, Draco!” She shook her head. “I assume I nearly died when the cart flipped; the driver from the Three Broomsticks was in on it too. You can’t take chances when someone else is relying on you. You don’t get to jeopardize my life, too. You’re too reckless.” She was so angry that tears had sprung to her eyes. She could hardly stand to look at him, except to see his remorse and relief that she was going to live. Hermione had to admit that she felt a pang in her heart that he was there beside her now, but the line between her own relief and her wrath was very thin.

Draco’s brow was deeply furrowed in shame. Hermione wiped her tears on her sleeve. 

“I’m so sorry,” he said, finally. “You’ve been unconscious for three days. I have had a lot of time to imagine all the things that befell you the moment I slipped away. You wouldn’t believe all the scenarios I made up in my head,” he said. He leaned against the foot of her bed. “I thought about your face when you realized I was gone. I imagined you changing your mind and going back to Dublin. Someone waiting for you there to kill you, and me never being able to get back to you. I regretted it immediately.”

“Good. But why didn’t you come back?” she murmured. 

He sighed. “Apparently Prefects patrol the tunnels now, a policy which was instituted the year after we left.” He blushed. “I was apprehended by two rather obnoxious Gryffindors. They took me to MacGonagall; once I explained myself, she wouldn’t allow me to leave. She organized a retrieval party to fetch you from Hogsmeade. She found you herself, on the road, and put the school on lockdown. No students or visitors are allowed in or out until we can figure out who is after us.”

“They’re after  _ you _ ,” she growled. “And you’ve gotten me roped into it.”

“I’ve ruined your life, I know it.” Draco sat on the edge of the bed and looked at his hands. “I don’t know how to begin to make it up to you.”

“You could start by telling me the truth from now on,” Hermione said. “No more secrets.”

Draco nodded. “I will. I promise.”

“I don’t know if that’s enough,” she breathed. Draco swallowed hard. It took a while before he could find the right words, but she could tell that he was wrestling with guilt.

“You could punch me again,” he said sheepishly.

Hermione couldn’t help but smile slightly. “Don’t tempt me.”

Draco laughed sadly. “If it’s any consolation at all, Madame Pomfrey fixed up your leg.”

“Small favors,” she sighed. Hermione looked up at the ceiling and cursed silently. Ripping into Draco wasn’t going to get them any answers about the murderous cult, which she now believed was sent courtesy of his father. She still didn’t want him to be captured or killed by the cultists. What she wanted was for him to think about someone other than himself, for once, even if his intentions had been noble.

Draco sat beside her bed. He reached for her hand, which she allowed him to take once again. “Forgive me. If something worse had happened to you--” The words were lost in his throat. He swallowed the thought and squeezed her hand.

“Then I would’ve come back from the dead to haunt you for the rest of your natural life,” she said pointedly. Draco smiled, despite himself, and sandwiched her hands between his own. “You haven’t ruined my life, by the way--despite your best efforts.” She nudged his knee.

“Haven’t I?” he said softly, looking down at their clasped hands. Hermione’s stomach growled aggressively, which startled Draco and made Hermione cringe. She clutched her stomach.

“Scrounge up a Midnight snack for me and I’ll consider forgiving you,” she said softly. He nodded. Hermione gestured for him to come closer, so he stood. She held out her arms to him. Draco leaned down and embraced her tightly. He was shaking. She grasped the nape of his neck. 

“I can’t lose you,” he whispered against her temple.

“Lucky for you, I am still a capable witch,” she said. “The man who attacked me in the Three Broomsticks won’t bother us again.”

“Are you sure of that?” Draco asked.

“Positive,” she said, pulling back to look at him. “I made sure of it.”

“Is he dead?”

“No,” she said evenly. “I simply made him incapable of perceiving you, even if you’re in the same room together.”

“How did you manage that?”

“You’re not the only one who dabbles.” Hermione raised her eyebrows innocently

Draco narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”

Hermione looked down and blushed. “I’ve spent the last ten years quietly researching old Celtic magic. I found a spell years ago that allowed the caster to hide someone from view--not just to make them invisible to their target, but to make their target unable to sense, hear, or smell them. It’s like… a cloaking charm. So  _ he’ll _ never be able to find you, at least. Never. And it does work, that much I can say.”

“That’s deep magic--”

“ _ Dark _ magic,” she corrected. “It’s considered Dark magic, by the Ministry.” She looked down at her hands. Draco grasped them tightly. 

“That’s why you moved to Dublin, then,” he murmured. Hermione looked up at him and nodded slightly. Her stomach grumbled. Draco said nothing else, but he held up a finger and walked briskly around the corner. She heard the wooden door to the hospital wing open, a faint snap, and a pop, which she assumed signified the arrival of one of Hogwarts’ house elves. Draco’s deep voice whispered instructions, and then a series of pops sounded. The great door swung shut, and Draco reappeared with a tray.

He set the wicker tray beside her bed; he had ordered her a spread of cheese, crackers, and some various fruits, as well as a pot of chamomile tea. She could smell the distinctive sweet flavor.

“How did you know what sort of tea I like?” she said softly as he poured her a cup. He smiled sadly.

“That night while I babysat your pub, I became quite familiar with your tea cupboard,” he said. “A  _ cupboard _ , Granger. An entire cupboard. Most people only have a single tin.” He chuckled, pouring a cup of tea for himself. “Let alone several different kinds what feature chamomile. You’re obsessed.”

“I’m particular, that’s all.” She blew on her tea.

“I’m aware,” he said with a smirk. He considered her quietly while they drank their tea. “It was your parents, wasn’t it? The reason you’ve cast that spell before.”

Hermione took a deep sip of her tea. She settled her cup in the groove of her saucer and worried her bottom lip. “I did what I had to,” she said. “That’s all anyone did, back then; we just needed to survive… needed our families to survive.”

“I don’t disagree,” Draco said. “Listen, Hermione, it’s only a few more hours until dawn. Would you mind if I got some shut-eye? MacGonagall will be wanting to speak with us when we’re able.”

Hermione shook her head. Draco set his cup and saucer on her bedside table and kissed her forehead. Hermione closed her eyes as soon as his lips met her skin. He gestured to the bed across from hers. Hermione herself slumped down against her pillows, and allowed her sleepiness to take over. For now, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for leaving your reviews! Your feedback keeps me going.


	10. The Green-Eyed Monster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The introduction of a certain ex-boyfriend sets Draco on edge.

“Oh Merlin, this is bad.” Hermione blanched.

“At least you’re smiling.”

“Yes, at least I’m smiling while you ravish me.” Hermione rubbed her eyes in frustration. Somehow, someone had managed to capture a photo of them through the keyhole of their room at the Three Broomsticks, in flagrante delicto. The photo cut off once Draco pinned her behind the raised footboard, but it was nevertheless quite obvious what was going on, and even more obvious who they were. There was no denying it. The Daily Prophet would have it’s best sales in ages with that cover story:

**A Secret Affair: Malfoy and Granger--the hot take!**

By Rita Skeeter

_ Who could have imagined it--two key players in the Great War _

_ have found solace in a weekend tryst at Hogsmeade's favorite  _

_ loveshack! By the look of it, they’ve traded Unforgivables for _

_ unmentionables. Is this the beginning of a torrid affair, or simply _

_ one night of passion? Sources say that our new favorite couple,  _

_ MalGer, may have been secretly married just this week in Ireland! _

_ They’ve been living in secret sin in Dublin since the war... _

_ It’s an Emerald romance for Slytherin’s favorite son--aren’t they _

_ Gryffindorable? Story continues on page 4 with an exclusive _

_ interview--with a secret source! If seeing is believing, Draco Malfoy  _

_ is relishing ravishing Ms. Granger! _

“I don’t know why you’re upset, Granger,” Malfoy said sarcastically. “She called us ‘Gryffin-dorable.’”

“Our cover is blown so wide that we’re literally naked,” she replied. 

“You look beautiful,” he said, considering the photograph. The only good thing about the invasive photo was the peace in her face that they captured. He was glad he couldn’t fully see his own face; it was obviously him in the photo, but he didn’t much want the world to see what happiness looked like in his intimate moments. Now that he thought about it, he didn’t much want  _ hers _ exposed either; that smile was supposed to be just for him.

“Oh good!” She threw her hands up and sighed. “At least now, when Aurors come to arrest us, they’ll have a decent photo to identify me. Maybe they’ll demand a reenactment to be certain. Would you be against a repeat performance, for the public?”

Draco touched her elbow. “As long as you’re not sorry it happened,” he said softly.

Hermione sighed. “No, I’m not. If you’re not.”

He shook his head. “I couldn’t be less sorry. I should think it was obvious by how I dive on you towards the end of the loop.” He pointed at the photo just as the shirtless sepia version of himself pushed her out of frame.

“Well, good.” She cleared her throat awkwardly. “That’s settled then. Neither of us regret it.”

“You might say we’re, what… proud of it?” He nudged her hip with his, which earned him a shy smile and a brief nod. “Lovegood must have tipped off the Prophet--”

“No.” Hermione smacked her hand on the desk. “Gods, I just can’t believe she would do that.”

“Who else, then?”

“I don’t know! But it wasn’t Luna. It has to be someone else, someone who was tailing us. The cart man from the Three Broomsticks said they knew we were here all along. Someone followed us from Ireland.”

“Who, Hermione?” Draco asked, crossing his arms. “The taxi driver?”

“I don’t  _ know _ !” she repeated. She covered her face with her hands.

“All right, shh.” Draco pulled her against him and hugged her close. She nestled her nose into the crook of his neck, curling her hands together between them and letting out a long breath. They had been reunited for a week in total… but Merlin-be-damned, it felt like ages, and it wasn’t just because he liked holding her. There was something different about her now. 

Hermione understood the agony of losing a great love. Nevermind that she hadn’t brought it up or even been willing to elaborate on the death of her husband--it was so apparent in the way she was willing to let silent moments pass unencumbered by idle chatter. Hermione, unlike any single woman he had met or slept with or spoken to in his adult life, understood sadness. Grief was her close, personal friend. 

But what they don’t tell you about grief? It makes happy moments technicolor singularities. Like  _ that _ moment of passion, which the Prophet thought they could peddle as entertainment. They would never be able to bottle the feeling of her. He had been struck sober by this woman, the first one ever to reach out and trace his scars in solidarity, rather than curiosity. A picture couldn’t touch that. He poked the headline and scoffed.

“MalGer…” he mumbled. “Could they have invented a more abhorrent nickname?” Hermione shook with silent laughter.

The telltale click of the door to McGonagall’s office made them both jump, though Draco wouldn’t allow Hermione to throw herself from his embrace. Instead, he disentangled his arms from hers and ran his hand down her bicep.. The headmistress smiled, but her face betrayed a rather… regretful feeling. “Fancy having the two of you back at Hogwarts. Together, no less.”

Hermione clasped her favorite professor’s hand as soon as it was offered. “I’m so sorry that we’ve brought this on you--”

“Miss Granger, please, there’s no need,” the headmistress said. “I’m glad that Madame Pomfrey fixed you up. You were in a sorry state last I saw you.” She gestured to the chairs before her desk and indicated that they both should take their ease. She remained standing, bracing herself above the offending newspaper. “Right. Let’s get to the point. Mister Malfoy filled me in on your situation while you were unconscious. I must admit that I’m not wholly surprised to see you exposed in the Prophet, given our  _ prior _ experience, though perhaps I could have imaged a slightly less personal angle.” She sighed. “This was our monthly Hogsmeade weekend, you see. The town was crawling with students and faculty.”

“You think someone from Hogwarts sold us out?” Draco asked, but he wasn’t convinced.

“I think it’s very possible that someone from the school recognized one of you, told someone else about it much too loudly in broad daylight, and the right person overheard. That’s all.” She cleared her throat. She was obviously annoyed by the very prospect and Hermione could just imagine the staff meeting that would occur once they had broken company. “Nevertheless, you are more than safe here, despite printed evidence to the contrary.”

“Thank you, Professor,” Hermione said. She glanced at Draco. He nodded at her in reassurance.

“I’ll just get rid of this, shall I?” McGonagall snapped her fingers and the Daily Prophet burst into flames.

“It won’t be long before the Ministry sends Aurors to arrest us  _ both _ ,” Hermione said. Headmistress McGonagall sat in her plush chair and wove her fingers together.

“While that may have been true during Dumbledore’s time, I strongly believe in keeping Ministry business  _ separate  _ from the school’s business.” She smiled then, a peaceful and conspiratorial grin. “I can’t possibly allow two of my most treasured alumni to be removed from the premises after being attacked just outside school grounds. It wouldn’t be safe! How can we figure out the cause of the attack if you’re sitting in a cell? What if students are in danger, too?”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “You’ve clearly thought this excuse through.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Mister Malfoy. I’m in the business of looking after my students, even if I’m no longer giving them a grade.” She looked at him over the top of her perched glasses. “There are a few of your classmates still hard at work here and it isn’t out of character for me to put a bee in Minister Shacklebolt’s bonnet by refusing him access to one of the Great War’s most beloved.”

Draco furrowed his brow and looked at Hermione questioningly. “Neville,” Hermione offered. “Teaches Herbology.”

“What, Longbottom is still here?” he scoffed.

“Don’t be rude,” Hermione said.

“I’m not, I swear, I’m just surprised.” He held up his hands, lest either woman think he took issue with Neville Longbottom receiving sanctuary in the school. He didn’t know anything about Longbottom’s life since the war, except that he would’ve likely been wanted for beheading Nagini… but not at the Ministry’s behest. 

“You are not the only two students who had to do something regrettable to stay alive,” McGonagall said. 

Hermione looked at Draco and frowned. What had he told her, exactly? About his mother, and helping her to her end? She already knew about Hermione’s parents--she had been the first person to receive an owl from Hermione before her trial. But what did she truly know--what should they tell her?

“Professor--” Draco stopped himself and chewed his cheek. “We don’t have many options, now.”

“Quite right about that,” McGonagall agreed. “Now that the Prophet made it public knowledge that you’ve been in Ireland, you certainly can’t go back. And you’ve  _ both _ violated the conditions of your freedom, namely that you stay out of trouble and out of the Wizarding world. The whole magical world knows what you look like now, so where does that leave you?”

“Buggered,” Draco breathed.

“Wards of the school,” McGonagall corrected. “Mister Malfoy, I was sorry to hear about your mother.”

He looked away and shrugged off Hermione’s comforting hand when it graced his shoulder. “Well, my father’s dead now, too, so it hardly matters.”

“We’ve had the lion’s share of death in the last few years,” Hermione added.

“Yes, Miss Lovegood told me about your husband. I am sorry. Cancer is a nasty business.” When Hermione said nothing, and instead put her face into her hands, the Headmistress moved around her desk and knelt beside her former student’s chair. 

“That was tactless of me,” she murmured. Hermione took her hand and squeezed it. Her eyes shone. She couldn’t hold back her tears anymore. She was too tired.

“Well. It’s settled, then. You’ve suffered quite enough.” McGonagall straightened and smoothed the front of her robes. “I’ve called in a favor to a particular friend of yours, someone who can access resources at the Ministry without necessitating your removal from the castle. Hopefully it will buy us enough time to figure out who’s after you.”

Draco and Hermione exchanged a look of dread. “Who would do that for us?” Hermione asked. “Luna couldn’t guarantee more than a drop for our… delicate package, and that was a massive failure.”

Headmistress McGonagall flicked open a small pocket watch, which was formerly concealed in the folds of her navy blue robes. A knock sounded. “Come in, Mister Weasley.”

“No.” Draco breathed out slowly and pinched the bridge of his nose. Hermione, on the other hand, jumped to her feet in surprise as Ron Weasley opened the office door. She was mostly surprised by her own glee in seeing him; he looked well, if not somewhat… concerned to see her. And then it hit her: Ron didn’t know why he was there. At least he feigned excitement and held out his arms.

“”Mione! Hey!”

“Well if it isn’t Ron Weasley!” She hugged him.

“If the Prophet is to be believed, then--”

“You  _ know  _ it isn’t!”

“--congratulations are in order, Mrs. Malfoy?”

“ _ Wells _ ,” she corrected with an awkward cough. “Wells is my married name.”

“Okay.” The both smiled at the floor. 

“I’m the Malfoy in the room,” Draco said from his chair. Ron leaned around Hermione and his eyes widened. “And yes, there’s only one.”

“Mister Weasley, thank you for coming on such short notice,” McGonagall said. She gestured to a spare chair beside the door, which Ron pulled up between Draco and Hermione. Draco leaned as far away from the red-head as he could without falling off his chair. Hermione beamed at her ex-boyfriend. It had been so long since they had even been in the same room, she was thrilled to see him.

The Headmistress went over the knowledge Draco had shared with her while Hermione was recovering in the hospital wing. He hadn’t told the Headmistress some of the more intimate details of their trials, but he had been very thorough. She knew about each attacker and their signifiers, and Hermione filled in the details about her attacks to which Draco had not been privy. The reason why Ron could be of help was less clear, but the Headmistress assured them that Ron had been instrumental in aiding Neville when it had been required. Apparently he was a field agent for the Ministry, so they wouldn’t be suspicious if he removed files from the premises, or spent a lot of time flooing to and from Hogwarts. Luna wouldn't be notified of their whereabouts unless absolutely necessary.

“And Weasley won’t turn either of us in,” Draco said skeptically.

“Despite the fact that the Ministry pays my rent, I am not in the business of turning in my friends,” Ron said, putting a hand on Hermione’s arm. “And since turning her in would lead to you…” 

“Aren’t you under some sort of oath?” Draco scoffed.

“Are you...  _ trying _ to talk me into reporting you, Malfoy?” Ron held up his hands in disbelief.

“I’m just saying that you’re not very good at your job if--”

“You have no idea what I do!”

“Oh please! I bet it’s very hard work out in the field, far away from the actual Aurors.”

“That is  _ rich _ coming from a wanted man who’s been hiding in Ireland for the last ten years!”

“It would be difficult for your little weasel brain to understand this, but I have my reasons for staying away from London, the least of which concern cretins like you.” 

Ron and Draco were nose to nose in mutual huff when the door to McGonagall’s office slammed closed. Draco’s head snapped to Hermione’s empty chair, and then to the Headmistress, who was rubbing her temples.

“Hermione, wait!” Draco called. Ron grabbed his arm.

“Let me talk to her--”

“For once in your life, Weasley, fuck off!” Draco ripped his elbow out of Ron’s hand and burst out of McGonagall’s office. The tell-tale click of her boots echoed up the stone stairs as she descended. He could tell she hastened as soon as she heard his voice. Bloody hell. Leave it to Ron Weasley to make him lose his cool. Just seeing that stupid freckled face had set him off.

“Hermione, love, please wait!” Draco called, nevermind that there were students and professors passing between classes in the crowded corridor. Hermione’s fingers were clenched, but she stopped walking. He dodged between students and finally caught up to her.

“You’re a child,” she ground out.

Draco crossed his arms. “We should be a bit more discreet; I’m not certain we should be waltzing around the castle during class hours. We should be out of sight--”

“Well, let’s go somewhere more private, shall we?” Hermione nodded once and gestured for Draco to lead the way. He took a path he had taken hundreds of times as a student, down past the Potions and Dark Arts classrooms, through the courtyard with the fountain, and outside to the Herbology greenhouses. He came to a halt finally, in front of the mandrake pots and braced his hands against the wooden plant riser. 

“We’re in private, now. Care to explain what that was back there?” Hermione asked.

“To be clear, I would never have agreed to work with McGonagall’s contact if I knew it was that piece of--”

“That’s  _ enough _ , Draco!” 

“He works at the Ministry!”

“You did not have a tantrum because of  _ that _ .”

“What--a  _ tantrum? _ ” He scoffed.

“You goaded him into an argument from the moment he walked in,” Hermione said.

“We are both  _ wanted _ , Hermione! Luna said--”

“Luna’s plan failed us.” She threw her hands up and turned away down the next row of plants. Draco watched her over the tops of the Mandrake leaves. She finally looked at him and sighed. “You’re jealous,” she said gently.

Draco closed his eyes. “I’m not… jealous. I’m… I’m…” He shrugged. His hands found their way into his pockets and he kicked at the cobblestones. “I’m not jealous.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“No I am not.”

Hermione couldn’t help but smile. She sat on one of the long benches behind the Mandrakes and rested her head on her hands. “I was sixteen. I had had minimal contact with boys other than Victor Krum, and I’m not sure  _ he _ had ever taken an anatomy class by then. Ron wasn’t overly nice to me, but he was one of my best friends. It made sense back then.”

Draco shuffled around to sit beside her on the bench and mimicked her position, leaning on the table. He smirked. Hermione blushed under his gaze. “Listen,” she said, leaning against him, “I haven’t spoken to him in years.”

“Years, huh?”

She laid her head on his shoulder. Draco kissed her forehead. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Hermione looked up at him. “We are going to be at the mercy of other people’s kindness for a while. Some of those people might have history with us.”

“I make no promises about being nice to him,” Draco said. 

Hermione sighed. “Fine. But once and for all, your horse is bigger than his horse. So, that’s settled. No need to have another standoff. Okay?”

Draco raised an eyebrow and put his arm around her waist. He nuzzled her ear. “My horse is bigger, then?”

“Oh Merlin.” Hermione groaned. He chuckled.

“I’m teasing you.”

“Yes, I’m familiar with your teasing voice,” she laughed. Draco kissed her gently. Hermione tucked her head into the curve of his chest. “I miss my pub.”

Draco hugged her close. He understood entirely; her life back in Dublin was comfortable and she had warm company, a business with loyal clientele… it was perfect. “I’m sorry that an evil animagus cult assassin attacked me in your lovely pub.”

“The cult part was just overboard,” she laughed. “Next time, just bring the plain ole animagus assassins.”

“Noted.”

“Great.” Hermione kissed him again and they agreed to return to McGonagall’s office, and most importantly, to take the favors as they came along. Even if those favors were shaped like Ron Weasley.


End file.
